


These Scars We Wear

by wonderland



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 51,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderland/pseuds/wonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane discovers that death does not always mark the end of a life. Sometimes it's only the beginning. Spoilers up to and including A Feast For Crows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. These Scars We Wear

He opens his eyes to cold droplets falling upon fevered skin. The pain is enormous, larger than any he has ever known. He tips his head and opens his mouth, desperate for something to quench the unending thirst, his tongue seeking the raindrops - a leaden gray sky’s offering. He has forgotten the flagon of water lying by his right hand; the one the she-wolf dropped there before she left him.

He is dying. And it is no better a death than he deserves.

As eyelids begin to flutter, the darkness pulling him close once more, Sandor Clegane watches as autumn leaves of gold and yellow and deepest red dance in the wind. He lifts a hand, meaning to capture one as it falls, a red one. It is the exact shade of her hair and he wants to grasp and hold one last time. Not to her, that will never be possible now, but only to her memory, contained there in a single leaf.

He closes his fingers too slowly, though, and it escapes, caught by a sudden updraft of air that circles round the high limbs of the tree he rests against. He watches as it shoots away, swirling and dancing.

“Aye,” he rasps. “There you go. Fly away, little bird."  
  
He draws in a sob and closes his eyes. "Mercy.  Please … mercy.”

**…**

Strong hands clutch his shoulders, lifting, shifting, and he rouses enough to reach for the dagger at his waist. But he is so weak, and those same hands move to stop him.

“You won’t be needing that, brother; I’m not here to harm you.”

“Bugger your _brother_ ,” he croaks and tries to focus on the face of the man who insists on lifting him higher against the tree trunk. He blinks and struggles and a sudden jolt of agony in his leg wrenches a scream from his lips. Blackness swallows him whole.

**…**

“You must drink. It does no good if it dribbles down your chin.”

Sandor is suddenly aware of the spice of wine upon his lips and tongue and grabs at the flagon, filling his mouth with the honeyed nectar of his prayers.

“Not too much, now. Just to wet your throat. That’s good.”

The flagon is taken from his hands and he watches the robed man set it aside and lift a dagger from a leather bag there.

“A throat doesn’t need wet down before it’s cut. If it’s-” He breaks off, coughing, wincing as pain shoots through him. “-if it’s mercy you mean to grant me, go for the heart.”

“That sort of mercy is not mine to give. Not anymore. But there are other mercies. I mean to cut away your breeches so I can get a look at that leg of yours. It stinks of mortification.”

“Does it? I hadn’t noticed,” he slurs, leaning far enough to the edge of the tree to draw close the flagon of wine. The man glances up as he cuts his way through the leg of Sandor’s breeches, giving him a sour look as Sandor pulls out the cork with his teeth and takes a long swallow. His hand is shaking and more wine spills down his chin. “You’re not a maester.”

“Not a maester,” the man agrees, his eyes cast down at his work. “I serve the Seven. I am Elder Brother at a septry not far from here. On the Quiet Isle.”

“And I’m a deserter from King’s Landing. With a price on my head, no doubt. A smarter man would take it off my shoulders and claim his gold.”

“A smarter man would have kept going after he saw your helm lying there, ignored your cries. But I serve the Gods, not the boy who sits the Iron Throne. And we are all children of the Seven. Even you.” The Elder Brother glances up at him and then back at his task.

Breeches slit and pulled back, he cuts through the strips of cloth glued to Sandor’s thigh and abruptly peels them away. Sandor hisses and then the smell hits him, stronger and more foul than it was masked. He rolls his head, teeth clenched. He cannot make himself look at the wound. He doesn’t need to. The stench tells him all.

“You know who I am?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Aye, I know you were Joffrey’s hound. But who are you now? Just another man dying on the banks of the Trident. The blood still flows red from the wound, that’s a good sign. But my gods, it reeks.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Sandor retorts, and raises the flagon back to his lips. It is snatched away.

“Enough of that. I need to give you milk of the poppy; just enough to get you on your feet and into the wagon. You’re too bloody big to carry, brother.”

“I’m not your brother. And what kind of holy man curses anyway?”

“One who has been exactly where you find yourself now.”

It is with more effort than it should take that Sandor raises his open hands, shrugs, and peers at his surroundings. “Here?”

The robed man makes a fist and pokes it hard into Sandor’s chest, over his heart. “ _Here_. And dying, too. Should I leave you to do it, with all that poison flowing through your veins? Is that how you want to die? Or would you do it under the roof of a humble septry instead, clean and warm and well-attended to? The choice is yours. Who are you now, brother?”

Sandor studies him for a long time; maps the broad, square face and the sharp eyes, the stubble that covers his cheeks and jaw and head. “I’m dying for certain then? You can’t heal me?”

“Mayhaps I can, mayhaps I can’t. Only the Mother can decide your fate. But I will do all that I can to mend your wounds. Healing the rest … that is up to you.”

There is something in him that wants to curse this man in his rough-spun robe, chase him away with the rage that is all that he has known for as long as he can remember. Sandor is weak and feverish and desperate with the need to be left alone to die. He is tired, more tired than he has ever been. And yet …

There _is_ something besides the rage and the exhaustion. A small thing, an ember burning within him that makes him ache even in its infancy. A hope he thought long dead, a dream he’d forgotten how to remember. He closes his eyes and recalls her hand cupping his cheek and how her skin had felt against his, like butterfly wings, silky and delicate.  

“Give me milk of the poppy and I’ll make my way to your wagon,” he says. “My horse comes, too. I won’t leave him behind.”

Something like a smile flickers on the man’s face before it’s gone just as quickly. “The horse, too, brother.”

“Sandor,” he says as he takes the small vial from the man and chokes down the bitter, milky fluid within it. “My name is Sandor. And I’m not your fucking brother.”

**...**

 

 


	2. These Scars We Wear

Hours flow into days into nights and back into days, the passage of time marked only by his brief awareness of the sun’s march across the autumn sky, glimpsed through the narrow window of his cell, and moments barely remembered but for the ache of his wounds. As much as he is able to think on it, he realizes the Elder Brother spoke truly. He is warm and as comfortable as he can be on his narrow pallet, fed strong broth and watered wine when he can sit up to drink.

The steady doses of milk of the poppy rob him of his dreams though, and only three days pass before he turns his head away from an offered vial.

“No more,” he rasps. “A man needs pain to gain his strength.”

And so the brothers hold him down when the time comes to cut away the remaining dead flesh from the wound on his thigh. Two men on each arm and the largest amongst them perched on his chest, his ankles secured to the bed by thick leather belts, another roll of leather jammed between his teeth. He screams and curses and bites deeply into the leather and finally, blessedly, faints.

He dreams of a wide field of green, of grasses so tall they reach his chest, and he runs through the field with arms outstretched, laughing as the grass tickles against his palms and between his fingers. He hazards a look over his shoulder and sees his sister gaining on him, her older, longer legs eating up the distance between them. She is laughing too, and he raises his knees ever higher and pumps his arms as he runs, determined to escape her.

“Sandor,” she calls out breathlessly, “little brother, you are too fast for me! I concede; you’ve won.”

He stops running as quickly as he began and turns to her. “Say the words,” he demands, his hands fisted on his hips.

His sister swipes dark hair off her sweaty cheeks as she halts, barely avoiding running into him, and looks at him askance.

“Say them,” he repeats.

Her frown turns to a grin and she curtseys before him. “As you bid, my lord brother. You shall be the greatest knight in all of Westeros someday. Lords and ladies shall sing your praises. The king shall reward you with lands and titles beyond compare. Fair maidens shall honor you with favors too many to count. And your enemies shall quake at the mere mention of your name.”

It doesn’t matter that her proclamation is one he has heard word for word, many and more times since this game of theirs began, when he was barely able to run without getting tangled up in his own plump baby legs and tripping. The only thing that matters is that she says them, and that he believes _she_ believes them.

Sandor runs into her open arms and she lifts him high and spins him around until they’re dizzy from it. She collapses to the ground, taking him with her and settling him onto her lap.

“Sweet baby brother,’ she murmurs and kisses his brow. He burrows deeper into the safety of her embrace and she holds him close as she begins to hum.

Sandor is five years old, not much more than a babe in his sister’s arms. And she is singing to him.

  **….**

A fortnight passes, and then a second and a third and he grows stronger, able now to navigate around his small cell within the cloister and to the buildings just beyond. He lurches and sways, sweaty and pale, his face etched with pain, but walk he does. He wears a novice’s robe now, for comfort more than anything else. He cannot abide coarse breeches scratching at the new skin forming over the shallow divot in his upper thigh. He spends more hours these days at the tiny table that sits by the window than in his bed. He stares out at the skies, sometime blue but often gray and heavy with rain now, as autumn marches its inexorable way south. Nearly bare branches bend in chilly gusts of wind; only the hardiest of leaves still clinging to dark, skinny arms that reach for the leaden sky. Sandor studies it all with sullen eyes. Too often he’s found himself thinking, regretting, scheming. Wishing for things he has no right to.

The noise inside his head drives him to distraction and he wants nothing more than to drink himself into a stupor. He supposes he could make his way to the distillery under cover of darkness, steal a cask of the strongwine, mead or ale Elder Brother has declared off limits to him, but he never goes beyond thinking about it and cursing the injury that will not allow him to carry even such a small thing - and himself as well - from one place to the other. So he swears loudly into the quiet and promises himself, _Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow._ But tomorrow passes into another, and then another, and he ventures no further than the bathhouse every few days; a short, manageable walk.

A silent brother brings him most of his meals and empties his chamber pot, lays out clean robes and small clothes, supplies him with books to read and keeps his chamber smelling fresh with sweet rushes to cover the floor. He is brought a vase of flowers one morning, late summer lilies with tall green stalks topped by vibrant red blooms. The brother no more sets them on the table before Sandor picks up the vase and sends it sailing against the far wall, shattering it into a hundred pieces and hurrying the brother away. He is brought no more flowers after that.

He wakes as always to the sound of bells and hymns and knows Elder Brother will break his fast with him this morning, as he does every third day. He does not know why Elder Brother bothers to do this; many of those mornings Sandor sits in churlish silence, glaring at the man as he embarks on what are mostly one-sided conversations. Sandor has little to say now and even less he wishes to share. But Elder Brother is persistent, and he grudgingly gives him marks for that. True tenacity is rare and always to be respected. Sandor hates cowards, and those who would give up instead of fighting back.

“You should consider joining us for worship, now that you’re better able to get around,” Elder Brother says between bites of boiled egg, thick slices of burnt bacon, and warm brown bread. “It’s not as torturous as you might think.”

Sandor snorts. “I have no need of gods.”

“We all need holy guidance; some of us more than others.”

He gives him a level stare. “You think you know me? All I need is a strong body and a sharp weapon.”

“Neither of which you possess this fine morning,” Elder Brother points out unnecessarily.

“Bugger off. I’m stronger than I was yesterday, and I’ll be stronger still tomorrow. I’d have weapons too – and armor – if you hadn’t seen fit to bury it all.”

“You know why that was done.”

“Aye, and I also know there’s an armory somewhere on this isle. You may preach your gods’ virtues and prattle on about the paths of goodness and the way to heaven, but one of those gods is a warrior. You’d be stupid not to have armed yourselves, water or no. You owe what you took from me.”

“I kept you alive. I’d say we’re even.”

They trade looks. Sandor’s is narrow-eyed, while Elder Brother gives him back an expression that is mildly sardonic. Sandor finishes his meal and washes it down with swallow of sweet cider.

“You told me there on the banks of the Trident that you wanted to be a better man,” Elder Brother continues. “It is within your grasp to do so, but first the lesser man must die. Who are you now, brother?”

Sandor doesn’t remember telling him such a thing and struggles to find the words to dispute it. But he cannot. So instead he ignores what’s been said and retorts, “You’d be glad of my skills if any bandits decide this place is easy pickings.”

Elder Brother throws back his head and roars with laughter. “You think you’re the only one here who has skills with a sword? Or the only one who’s cut a man down and taken pleasure in it? Gods, I could tell you some stories! Men, women–” he cuts his eyes at Sandor, “- children. It’s the children who haunt me now, who cry out in my dreams. The ones I think of when I kneel before the Seven and ask their forgiveness. Which of them haunt you?”

 _Only one_ , he thinks, but does not say aloud. _I did not steal her life, but I destroyed whatever scrap of trust she might have had in me, and left her without protection. And now she is lost to me._

“It is not your proficiency at killing that concerns me,” Elder Brother says, “the world has always needed men like you, to set things right. And the Warrior looks kindly upon soldiers and men at arms. The concern I have is for the rage you carry within you and the price it extracts on your soul. If the source of that anger is stripped away, what will be left? What kind of man would you choose to be?”  

“Why, then I’d be a brotherless man, having killed the one I was cursed with, and would rejoice in it. I’d not be one who then chooses to hide away behind robes and vows, that’s for certain.”

“You say that now. But you cannot know until the moment is upon you.”

“If you’re trying to make a point, get on with it.” Sandor closes his eyes and tips his head back to rest against the wall. “I’m bloody sick of you poking at me, old man.”

“I am afraid this conversation has only just begun. I’ve had news from King’s Landing, Sandor,” comes the response, and the tone in which the words are delivered is enough to make him sit up and turn to the other man. “News about your brother.”

  
**....**


	3. These Scars We Wear

He does not know how much time has passed since Elder Brother left him with the news of Gregor’s death. He only knows how cold he is. Though his cell is kept warm by a brazier, his body is racked by deep spasms of shivering and his teeth chatter like dice shaken in a gambler’s fist. His arms are extended and shoved between his knees, his head bowed. As he gradually comes back to himself, Sandor realizes he is rocking in place and the sudden memory of being cradled in his sister’s arms causes him to rise to his feet. His eyes dart round the room, uncertain what it is he is looking for, until he realizes he will not find it within these four walls.

 _There is nothing left of me_ , he thinks. And with that snatches a brown woolen scarf from a hook on the wall, throws open his cell door and staggers down the short hallway to the outer door of the cloister.

A brisk wind bites at his skin as he steps outside and he winds the scarf around his lower face and draws up the pointed hood of his robe. He jerks at the sudden clang of the bell announcing the midday meal and starts off in the opposite direction of the dining hall and kitchens, his gait awkward and stilting and his eyes trained at the ground before him, refusing to look at any of the brothers walking past. He is afraid of what he might do if any of them dare meet his eye.

He craves the weight of a sword in his hand and closes it into a fist, clenching and releasing. He badly wants to kill someone. Anyone. He wants to feel the rush of facing a lethal threat, the sense of absolute joy he knows only when he leaves all thought behind and becomes pure instinct and motion, his steps sure in the deadly dance of combat. He wants to feel again the satisfaction of sharpened steel slicing through fragile flesh, and bathing in another man’s lifeblood.

These men and boys he lives among are no different than any others – they are sheep for the slaughter. But he is not the butcher he was, not now. The tools of his trade have been taken, his former strength nothing but a memory, his purpose snatched away by cruel gods and ill circumstance.  He is alone on an island of devout men who pass their days in worship and silence and mundane tasks. Where the only sheep slaughtered are sheep for true. No voices are raised here, except in song. It is a quiet place, and peaceful. He knows that even if he had the soul necessary to appreciate such things, he has no heart to bear them. All that he was, all that he has ever been and lived for, died when his brother drew his last godless breath.

He thinks again, _There is nothing left of me_.

He slowly makes his way up the slope of a high hill where massive, ancient oaks lift gnarled arms to the sky, supporting his wounded thigh with an outspread hand at every step he takes. It is laborious, painful work and he is gasping for breath and soaked in sweat by the time he reaches the crest of the hill. With every muscle trembling he stops, bending at the waist and sucking in cool, salty air. When finally he straightens, Sandor Clegane casts squinted eyes around the place where he stands. He can see the Bay of Crabs off to his right and what remains of Saltpans a distant speck to his left. He braces his injured leg, pivots to look behind him and stops, taken aback when he sees where he has come.

He is standing on the edge of a burial ground, here at the top of this hill. In front of him are row upon row of graves, each one marked by a simple wooden seven-pointed star. Some twenty feet away is another grave, partially dug, and a narrow shovel poking up from a mound of dark earth. On the other side of the hole rests a body, wrapped in coarse-spun canvas and tied at head and feet with hempen rope.

Sandor grunts and approaches the grave. “Poor bastard,” he mutters. “Some brother’s belly called more loudly to be filled than you did to be buried, I’d say. Count yourself lucky. At least you’ll have a nice hole in the ground to call home. And flesh to feed the worms.” He curls his fingers round the handle of the shovel. It is wrapped in strips of leather, and if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine it is the grip of a longsword. “So who were you, then?” he asks. “A soldier, might be. Or could be a villager got caught in between the bloody wolves and the lions. Maybe you’re one of the brown brothers. Or even some lord of noble birth. Doesn’t much matter now, does it? You’d be nothing but feast for crows if you hadn’t ended up here.” He barks a short, harsh laugh. “Could just as easily be me lying there waiting for some pious man to finish his meal before I got buried proper. Well, bugger that. There’s too much waiting when you’re alive, a man shouldn’t have to wait no more once he’s dead.”

He pulls the shovel from the mound of dirt and sets his feet. Gritting his teeth and groaning at the wicked pain that shoots up his leg with each shovelful of dirt he harvests, Sandor gradually widens the hole and then begins to make it deeper, finding a calming, thoughtless rhythm in the bite of the shovel into the dirt, and the swing of shoulders and arms as he tosses it away. Before long he has to drop onto his arse and carefully lower himself into the hole to make any real progress. His muscles burn with a sweet ache that is as familiar to him as the beating of his heart.

He does not take notice of the brother who eventually comes up the hill behind him, intent on resuming his chore; who watches Sandor for several long minutes before smiling to himself and mouthing a prayer of benediction as he turns away and goes back down the hill.  

Sandor begins to hum, some tuneless thing that is more accompaniment to his task than a true song. But it feels good to move and to be doing something other than taking up space in a chair and regretting a vengeance stolen from him. The fire in his belly flares at the fresh thought of Gregor, but it is a different sort of heat from what he has known before. He can no longer plot his brother’s death but he can dig a hole, and that is a place to start.

The corner of his burned and scarred mouth lifts. Not in a twitch as it has so many times before, but in the hint of a smile as he realizes he might finally have a response to Elder Brother’s perpetual question.

_Who are you now?_

And he finds himself whispering the answer. “I am the gravedigger.”

**....**


	4. These Scars We Wear

He swims slowly up from a dream of being astride his horse, gripping Stranger’s powerful sides with his equally powerful legs, and the girl’s arms wrapped tightly round his chest. He can feel her trembling there behind him, even through his studded leather and mail.  As he reaches to cover her small hands with one of his own, his arm spasms as muscles protest. Groaning, Sandor opens his eyes to find himself in his bed. He does not remember how he got here. But he feels as if he’s been trampled by a herd of aurochs.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

He turns his head to find Elder Brother occupying a chair by the bed, legs outstretched and hands folded over his belly. Sandor tries to sit up but finds he can’t. He aches all over and the wound on his leg screams for his attention. As he collapses back down upon the bed, clumsy fingers find the thigh wrapped tightly beneath the nightshirt he’s wearing.

“You’ve broken open the wound. I’ve packed it with a poultice and bound it. You need to stay off your feet for a few days, let it begin healing again.”

Sandor purses dry lips. His tongue feels swollen and his mouth tastes like it’s been shit in. “How did I – ”

“Brother Owen found you flat on your back when I sent him to fetch you for supper. When we tried to lift you onto the stretcher to bring you down, you mistook it for an attack.  You had to be subdued.”

Though Elder Brother’s face isn’t any more unpleasant to look upon than it ever is, there is a bite to his words that makes Sandor hesitate. “I didn’t kill anyone, did I?” he finally asks.

“No. But I believe Brother Wynn’s nose is broken. And some of us will be nursing bruises for a while.” 

Elder Brother reaches for a pitcher on the bedside table and fills a cup, offering it to him. He makes no move to help as Sandor slowly, and with much grunting, struggles to sit up enough to rest his back against the wall. He leans out and grabs the cup, emptying it in two long swallows and holding it out for more. It is not the watered wine he hoped for, but the cider is sweet and cool in his mouth and down his throat. His head is pounding now that he’s upright and feels twice as heavy as it should. “You gave me milk of the poppy,” he accuses.

“I did. And almost lost my fingers for it. I gave you enough that you’ve slept through an entire day and half another night. I wasn’t going to risk you completely ruining my handy work. If you want to dig graves, Sandor, dig graves. But you don’t have to go about it as though you’re fighting off all the demons in the seven hells. There is something to be said for moderation.”

“I’ve never been very good at that,” he grumbles.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Nonetheless, not every task has to be done as though your life depended on it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, old man,” he retorts. “Everything I do, I’ve done to stay alive. You were a soldier; you should know something about that.”

“Aye, but I wasn’t always a knight. I was born into a noble house and raised well. And lucky enough that my lord father and lady mother truly loved one another - and all their children. But that didn’t stop me from doing terrible things later; things I shudder to think about now. We all make choices.”

“Some things we have no choice in. You think I chose to have my brother shove my bloody face into a brazier? Or that anything I did could’ve stopped him from -” Suddenly aware of what he is about to say, he snaps his mouth shut, glaring at Elder Brother. The look he gets back is a placid one, which inexplicably angers him. “What? What are you bloody well looking at?”

“Tell me about Sansa Stark.”

His heart stops beating for a moment and Sandor feels as if he’s been dipped in icy water. “Get out,” he snarls. “Get out before I -”

“Do what? Before you crawl out of your bed and onto your belly and start biting my ankles?” Elder Brother laughs. “Even if you could stand, I’d be on my feet first. Big as you may be, I could still bring you to your knees just now. Do you want to test me, brother?”

“Fuck you.” Sandor turns his head and feigns a sudden fascination for the far wall of his cell. He has a few moments of peace before the man starts jabbering again.

“You’re a very restless sleeper, I’ve noticed. I’ve spent quite a bit of time in this chair since I first brought you to the isle, watching over you as you’ve slept.”

“So now the truth comes out. You fancy me, is that it? Spend enough time in the company of nothing but men, I suppose even I might begin to look tasty.” Sandor does not get back the animosity he hopes for, but merely a low chuckle instead.

“You talk in your sleep, as well. Did you know that?”

“What of it, old man?”

“The Stark girl's is not the only name you’ve called out, though it’s hers more than any other. If you won’t talk about her, perhaps we can get somewhere with another name. What was it? Oh, yes … Moriya.”

Sandor’s neck feels as if it runs on gears as he slowly turns his head and locks eyes with Elder Brother. Now the cold is felt not from without but within, an icy, implacable anger that has replaced the blood flowing through his veins. “If you ever speak her name again, I _will_ kill you. Believe that.”

Unperturbed, the older man presses on. “Who is she?”

Sandor gives him back nothing but a hard look. The question hangs heavily in the air as the seconds tick by. And he is astonished to find himself both repulsed and drawn to the idea of finally, finally saying aloud what has festered so long within him - this rancid, dark, horrific thing.

“Not all the scars we wear are ones that can be seen,” Elder Brother says quietly. “The worst of them are the ones borne in secret, tucked close in that darkest part of our hearts. Those are the ones need healing the most.” He asks again, “Who is she, this girl you cry out for?”

His eyes begin to sting and Sandor clenches his jaw as he answers. “Was, old man, who _was_ she. She’s gone now. She was my … my sister.”

“What happened to her?”

He ducks his head and studies his hands, blinking away hot tears that shame and humiliate him. Guilt surges through him and covers him like a cloak, heavy with the weight of years of bitter regret.

“I killed her,” he confesses. 

**….**


	5. These Scars We Wear

There is only one grave to dig this chilly day, three less than yesterday. It is for one of their own, Brother Clement, who has finally succumbed to the injuries he sustained when Saltpans was sacked and will be buried on the morrow. The graves dug the day before were for bodies that had washed ashore. The Trident gives up her dead with no kind of pattern. Some days pass with none appearing on the shore of the isle and others with almost more than he can manage holes for.

Sandor digs more slowly now and with measured movements. He does not wish to waste more time lying abed. Some days are harder than others but he never stops; he works from dawn to dusk with only a skin of cider and a bundle of bread and hard cheese to see him through till the evening meal. Then he wolfs down his food and makes his way to the bathhouse. Each night as he washes away the dirt, the sweat, and the stench of death he can feel the contours of his muscles rounding and reforming, becoming harder and stronger. He knows that he may ever limp, but his wounded leg holds his weight better now and with less discomfort.

He has been given other tasks by Elder Brother, chores to fill the days when there are few or no bodies to bury. He works in the kitchens and in the stables, picks apples from the orchard, churns butter, sweeps out the sept and replaces the candles there. Some of the brothers greet him with tentative smiles now, though he does not return them. But he can meet their eyes easily enough.

Some nights he waits until evening worship is well underway and sidles quietly into the sept, taking a seat in the back. He does not pray or light candles before any of the altars, but he listens to Elder Brother's words and those of the proctors as they read from _The Seven-Pointed Star_. And he likes the songs of worship, voices high and low, talented and tuneless alike, as they merge and fill the small wooden building with music.

Elder Brother continues to break fast with him every three days. The wonder of it is that Sandor no longer resents his presence on those mornings, or his probing questions. Something shattered within him when he made his confession, and now they work to rebuild the ruins together, him and Elder Brother. The words still come hard, and he knows some may never come at all, but his burden is somehow lessened by sharing those that do.

As he digs he begins to chuckle under his breath, thinking about Brother Gillam being one ear shy of a pair now. When asked a few days earlier, Sandor had quickly granted permission to have Stranger gelded, knowing the outcome even then and tucking his amusement closely to himself upon hearing the results. _As well they'd come after me with shears_ , he thinks, n _either one of us too anxious to be snipped._

He soon loses himself in the familiar rhythm of dig and toss, and in memories he would only allow himself in fleeting moments before his time here. The remembrances are almost always painful ones and he wonders how different things could have been if only …

But he stops before going down that treacherous road and hears Elder Brother's words.

_Your past cannot be changed, only your future. It is up to you to decide what kind of man you would be now._

Sandor does not yet know. For he is only just beginning to understand the sort of man he _was_. Everything is changed – absolutely and irrevocably. He is no more the Lannister's dog or Joffrey's sworn shield. Neither Kingsguard nor soldier. He is no longer the Hound, nor does he want to be. The mad dog of Saltpans is not a title Sandor Clegane wishes to bear, and he growls low in his throat at the fresh and stinging thought that he is being held responsible for such crimes. He has enough transgressions belonging to him, he needs no false others.

He raises his eyes at the sound of scuffing feet on the path just below where he digs. Brother Narbert is leading a septon, two men, and a boy along the pathway. No, not two men: another quick glance confirms that one is a _woman_ , almost as tall as he and armored the same as the man beside her. A yellow hound trots along at their heels, its tail happily see-sawing.

Mouth gone suddenly dry, heart pounding, Sandor lowers his eyes and damns the gods that it's a shovel in his hand instead of steel. He doesn't wish to spill blood here, but he will if he must – and however he must. His advice to the she-wolf repeats in his head like an echo from another life.

_Keep your eyes down and your tone respectful and most knights will never see you._

He unearths another spade full of dirt and tosses it his over his shoulder as they pass.

"Be more watchful there," Brother Narbert calls out, and Sandor dips his head even further, until his chin almost meets his chest. "Septon Meribald might have gotten a mouthful of dirt."

The dog veers off the path and is quickly at Sandor's side, tongue lolling between his teeth, panting and sniffing at him. Sandor lets the spade drop and scratches the old hound's ears. His hand is licked in thanks before the dog heads back down the hill. Once they are safely past, Sandor turns and warily watches the group as they make their way toward the cluster of buildings behind the low wall that encircles the septry proper.

He is forced again at the evening meal to hide his face, grateful for the hood of his robe and the length of wool that covers most all but his eyes. He makes as much haste as he can clearing the tables and spends the remainder of the night upright in a chair in his darkened cell, waiting for an attack he is not entirely certain will come.

Morning bells jerk him awake and he almost topples from the chair, catching himself at the last moment and massaging the crick from the back of his neck. He takes his time leaving his cell, missing breakfast. He avoids the stables and the sept and stops at the arbor to pluck two ripe red apples, one of which goes in a pocket of his robe, before making his way through the fog of the gray and chilly morning to the other side of the isle and toward the dock there. The ferry is pulling away just as he gingerly side-steps his way down the slope of the hill. Aboard are the strangers, as he hoped they'd be. Sandor studies their retreating backs and bites into the last bit of apple. He chews slowly and considers. Then, mind made up, he throws the core into the rippling waters of the river and goes in search of Elder Brother.

**….**  


"There is nothing you can do!"

Sandor does not like Elder Brother's proclamation any more now than the first three times he heard it. But he is running out of arguments and knows he has lost. That knowledge does not prevent him from ceasing his stilted pacing of the floor of Hermit's Hole and wheeling to glare at the older man. He stabs a finger in the air and declares, "This is _your_ doing! If you hadn't left my bloody fucking helm on that cairn, I wouldn't have knights and gangs of buggering mercenaries with balls bigger than their brains out looking to kill me!"

"A grievous mistake, brother, and one for which I have already asked forgiveness, from you _and_ the Seven. I have prayed on this many and more times."

"A lot of bloody good that does me! I hope they've heard your prayers - they never heard mine."

"Sandor-"

"Tell me, _brother,_ " he snarls, "Do you still waste breath praying for me? Don't bother, I cannot be saved. Better you direct your efforts toward this Brienne of Tarth and that bloody pretender she rides with. Best you pray they can do what your actions have prevented me from doing and _find_ her before the lions do!" Something snaps inside him and he spins and kicks over a side table, sending pottery and books crashing to the floor.

"Sandor-"

"She was my world! But I did not protect her as I should have!" He pulls in a ragged breath and struggles to regain some control. Fists clenched, he stares at the floor, forcing out words through gritted teeth. "I couldn't even keep her safe from _me_." A harsh laugh escapes him. "I was a bloody fool to even think she might …" He shakes his head. "She is lost to me, I know. But I damn your gods for bringing her to me, only to snatch her away. I damn them for not giving me more time."

In the absence of any argument, Sandor feels his anger slowly draining away, replaced by a familiar grief. Lethargy settles over him like a robe and he can feel Elder Brother's eyes on him as he sets the table upright and bends awkwardly to collect what's fallen.

"Mayhaps she is not lost to you," Elder Brother says quietly and after a small silence. "If the gods mean for Sansa to be yours, she will find her way to you. Or you to her."

"And if they don't?"

"It is not up to us to question their will. But … it does no harm for a penitent soul to pray they might change their minds."

Sandor cannot help but snort with laughter. "You'll say anything to see me on my knees in your sept, won't you, old man?"

"I will not lie. There is peace to be found there in that sept, and in the contemplation and worship of the Seven. I want that peace for you, Sandor."

"Why?"

"Because I know what it is to have lost everything; honor, pride, a purpose … dreams. I loved a girl too, once. And lost her, as well. I let it destroy me. I do not want that to happen to you, brother. Don't let her memory destroy you; let it give you strength instead."

All he needs do is close his eyes and he can see her so clearly, the blue of her eyes and the dark fire of her hair, the small span of her waist and the tiny bones of her wrist enclosed in his large hand, fragile as a bird's. And he can smell her, still: lemons and green grass and sunlight.

"Brother Clement's service is beginning soon," Elder Brother says, pulling him from his transient respite. "Will you be joining us on the hill?"

"Aye," he answers, pushing away from the wall he's rested against. "Just as I do for all of them. They'll not finish burying themselves, will they? That's one thing I can do right, eh?"

Sandor opens the door and follows the other man outside.

**….**

Elder Brother seeks him out later; as he shovels the last of the dirt over Brother Clement's grave and pats it down. It is near dark and Sandor has lit and hung a lantern from the branch of a nearby tree. Moths large and small flutter round it and launch themselves at the globe surrounding the oil's flame, drawn to the light.

"It will be a cold night," Elder Brother says, folding his robed arms against his chest. His breath billows in puffs of translucent white. "It is on nights like this I miss having a woman to warm my bed."

Sandor jams the shovel into the ground and eyes him skeptically.

"What? Do you think I have forgotten just because I spoke vows? You may call me an old man but I am not much older than you. I remember every one of them. I didn't woo them all, or even pay for them all. There were many times I simply took what I wanted."

"Gregor was the raper," he finds himself saying. "Not I. A man needs offer protection, not take what isn't willingly given him, or what's not been paid for. And even if I had a mind to, I never would. Not after …"

He is startled when Elder Brother reaches to clasp him on the shoulder. "You are no more responsible for what may be happening to the Stark girl than you were for your sister's murder. You did all that you could – whatever you could – to protect her. Just as your sister did for you."

"And paid for it with her life."

"Aye, she did. Nothing can change that. Would you have done any less for her? You were a child, Sandor. A terribly injured child with a father gone more than not and a brother who reveled in violence. You cannot continue to blame yourself for things that are out of your control."

"Everything is out of my control."

"I know it feels that way now, but it will get better."

"When? How?"

"When it is time. Don't look at me that way. I don't have _all_ the answers – no man does. And the how of it… That is up to you."

Sandor tips his head and studies the night sky, a rich indigo in which stars are beginning to sparkle like jewels scattered across its immensity. "The ground is starting to freeze," he remarks. "I'll not be digging graves for much longer. Winter is coming."

"Yes, it is. What will you do then, Sandor Clegane, when you can no longer dig graves?"

His answer is a long time in coming. "I would stay here for a while," he finally says. "If you will have me." He pushes out a long breath and glances at the man beside him. "And mayhaps I will learn to pray. If I pester your gods long enough and loudly enough, perhaps they will change their minds ... and grant me more time."

**….**


	6. These Scars We Wear

“It wasn’t just the wildfire. I’ve faced flames in battle before. The fires feed the rage. So does the fear.” Sandor casts a glance at Elder Brother. They are sitting at a table in the common hall, during the lull that comes between supper and evening prayers. A storm rages outside; a bitterly cold wind rattling the shutters of the windows and finding its way in through tiny seams and cracks in the walls, stirring the air around them with its icy fingers.

“Any soldier who claims he is not afraid is a liar, or a fool. Fear and anger are a dangerous combination,” Elder Brother offers, “especially when armed with steel.”

“As any man who’s ever faced me could attest - if I hadn’t put them all in the ground.” He takes a sip of hot mulled wine and sets the driftwood cup back on the table. “Men were falling all around me. Burning or bleeding or both; dying. The Blackwater was on fire. I’d led a third sortie and knew we were beaten. I got what men I had left back inside the gate. And then the Imp decided what we’d already faced wasn’t sufficient. That’s when it happened: when I’d bloody well had enough.

“The Lannisters,” he spits, “frauds, every one of them, and me worst of all for my allegiance to them. I was somewhere I didn’t want to be, doing things I didn’t want to do. And for what? So I could be sent back out into the fires of the seven hells to fight for things I wanted no part of? So that sick little fuck could sit on his iron throne and continue mistreating her?”

It has been near two years since Sandor Clegane first came to the Quiet Isle and winter has fallen hard upon Westeros.

“It’s good she didn’t come with me then. I would have gotten us both killed within a fortnight. Though there are times I wonder if I didn’t leave her to a worse fate: her marriage to the dwarf and then accused of regicide.”

“You don’t believe her capable of murder?”

“I didn’t say that. Everyone is capable of murder. She meant to kill Joff once, just after he’d had her lord father’s head lopped off. I saw what she was thinking and stepped between them, stopped her. The little king never knew how close he came to flying that day. But his murder by poison? No. That requires a cruel cunning and the little bird don’t have it in her. Short-tempered she could be, but not calculating, not that way.”

“People change, brother. You know that better than most. You knew Sansa Stark when she was a child. You cannot know who she has become.”

“If it’s true that snake Baelish has her, may your gods be with her.”

There are still ravens bringing news, though not as often as Sandor would like. Elder Brother has been forthright in sharing with him what he learns, though Sandor knows he keeps much more of it from the brothers of the septry. Enough seemingly disparate bits and pieces have been gathered for Sandor to assemble them into a plausible whole. Something is happening in the Vale and he is almost certain she is there in the middle of it. He also knows there is nothing to be done. He is trapped here on the Quiet Isle, just as surely as she is trapped in the Vale. It rankles him no end that she could be so close, and him with no way of knowing for certain.

He thinks on all the plans he’s made over the last two years, all the possible scenarios his mind has created on those long nights when he can’t sleep and lies awake instead, warmed by his memories of her. Sandor wipes a calloused hand across the battered wood of the table and quietly snickers at his strange quirk of fate.

“What makes you smile, brother?”

Sandor lifts his eyes and looks at the man across the table. “Do I have to share every bloody thought in my head? You should be tired of listening to me by now, old man.”

“Perhaps; but I grow weary of hearing my own voice. And it is pleasant to talk to someone other than my proctors.”

“You get tired of their pious bleating too, do you? Be honest now, you like swapping war stories with me. You were a soldier; that never leaves you.”

“I am a man of the Faith now – that is my life’s calling.”

Sandor gives him a long, reflective look, one which is returned in kind. It does not occur to him to wonder when being looked at straight on stopped being a rarity and became the norm. There are no eyes on this isle that will not willingly meet his. “Tell me: were you brought to your knees when you found your gods?” he asks.

Sandor has tried his hand at prayer. He has lit candles and ignored the hushed gasps when placing them in front of the Stranger. He has chosen not to acknowledge the more satisfied looks he gets when offering them to the Mother and the Warrior and the Crone. He cannot say if he has been touched by the Seven’s graces, if the ease he feels in his own skin now is their doing or only time away from the madness of the outside world. He doesn’t think it matters much; he is simply grateful for it.

Every fortnight Elder Brother asks him the same question. And every fortnight Sandor gives the same answer: he will take no vows. To do so would be as fraudulent of him as the thought of taking a knight’s vows had once been. He refuses to pretend to be something he is not. He will wear their robes and he will respect their rules, he will remember what he learned, but he will not forsake his calling for the Faith’s.

“Aye, I was. But what makes you ask?” Elder Brother wonders.

“I always thought it would be a man like you – back when you wore steel – that would some day bring me to my knees; that death was my only calling. Never did I think it would be a ginger-haired girl instead, barely a woman grown.”

There is a long silence. Sandor watches as Elder Brother contemplates the meaning of his statement and seems to grow resigned to it. “You’re still determined to leave here when you can, then; despite the dangers you will face?”

“The goodfolk of the realm – what’s left of them – will have more important things to concern themselves with. And I’ll have the robes to protect me and hide my face. I’m as strong as I’ll ever be. You didn’t think I’d stay here forever, did you?” Elder Brother gazes at him intently and Sandor remains as he is, allowing the study.

 “Who am I to question what you have been called to do?” the man opposite him finally responds. “The heart wants what it wants, Sandor.”

“Back then I would have told you I didn’t have one. Now … now sometimes I wish it true. Sometimes the ache is more than I can stand.”

“What would you say to her, if she were sitting here instead of me?”

“It wouldn’t be anything you’d needs hear, I can bloody well tell you that,” he retorts. “That prayer will be for her ears alone.”

“If you find her.”

“ _When_ I find her. This winter can’t last forever.”

“There are those who believe it will; that we are facing the end of days. If the men of the Night’s Watch do not prevail and the Wall comes down …”

“The bloody Wall will stand, just as it has for eight thousand years. Better you worry about this dragon queen and her pets. If she makes it across the Narrow Sea, we’re all done for. Give me death by ice any day. I’ve had my taste of fire, and too many times. Better to freeze than burn.”

“I would prefer to avoid both.”

Sandor can’t help but laugh. “As would I, brother. But all men must die.” He reaches for his cup of wine and takes a drink, allowing the warmth of the spices to dance on his tongue before he swallows it down. It is still a novelty to drink wine for the simple pleasure of it, instead of using it to numb himself. Sandor has learned that like the body, the heart too needs to feel pain to grow stronger and heal its wounds.

A log snaps in the blazing fire of the hearth and Sandor turns toward the sound, suddenly curious at what has become absent. “Listen. Do you hear that?”

Elder Brother tips his head and does as he’s bid. “The winds have calmed. Mayhaps the storm has passed.”

“No,” Sandor says, swinging a leg over the bench and walking toward the double doors of the hall with scarcely a hint of a limp. “Do you not hear that? It’s raining.”

“How lovely,” Elder Brother’s voice comes from behind him, his tone contradicting his words. “We shall be skating on a layer of ice come morn.”

Sandor grabs the iron ring of one door’s handle and pulls it open. Outside is darkness and snow, piled almost as deep as he is tall on both sides of the path leading away from the common hall.  Almost every foot of it, and all the others circling the septry proper, have been dug with his shovel; earth has given way to snow, dark soil to blinding white, graves to pathways for the living.

Sandor steps out and lifts his face to the rain. And then more hesitantly he lifts both hands, palms up. He closes his eyes as the raindrops patter against his skin and a slow smile spreads across his face, tight on the burned side, wide and easy on the other.

“Have you decided to stay outside and freeze along with the rain?”

Sandor lets the smile fade as he turns back into the hall and faces Elder Brother. “I’ll not be freezing tonight, old man. The rain,” he says, “it’s _warm_.”

**....**


	7. These Scars We Wear

A month passes and Elder Brother finds him in the stable one afternoon, mercilessly hacking at his straw-stuffed and silent opponent with a crudely carved wooden sword.

"We've gotten word from the Citadel," he says.

Sandor tosses away the child's weapon and grabs a scrap of cloth hung over the low gate of Stranger's stall. He wipes the sweat from his face and neck and asks, "What news?"

Elder Brother has the scroll in one hand and a long, loosely wrapped bundle in the other. He hands Sandor the scroll. "It is as I thought: a false spring. They cannot say how long it will last. Perhaps half a year, but no longer. If you mean to go, it should be soon."

He looks up from the message and nods. "I'll likely leave on the morrow or the day after, then. Take the ferry across to Saltpans, and north from there."

Elder Brother holds his hand out for the paper and replaces it with the bundle. "You'll be needing this."

As Sandor's hand closes round it, he recognizes the shape and weight of what is wrapped within. Glancing between it and the monk as he works the cloth loose, he swallows hard at the sudden reality of what is ahead of him and the significance of what he's been handed.

The wrapping falls away and he holds a worn leather scabbard in his hands, free of embellishments and with a dull patina that speaks of years of hard use. What the scabbard lacks in beauty, the bastard sword sheathed within makes up for. As he pulls it free, he sees that it is a magnificent weapon, with a thick leather-wrapped grip and an acorn shaped pommel. The guard is wide enough for his massive hand and finely carved. Sandor lifts the blade to eye level and peers down its length, judging it true, and the steel shines in the light streaming through the stable doors. "A gift from the Trident?"

"Aye – one of many. I asked Brother Bryan to choose something out for you, make sure it was cleaned of rust and honed good and sharp. He was a smith before he came to us. I dare say he took great pleasure in the task."

"It's beautiful," Sandor murmurs. "Thank you."

"How is the weight? Is the balance good for your arm?"

Sandor twists away from Elder Brother and swings the blade in a wide arc and then back again. And then again and again, cutting high and low, thrusting and parrying against an invisible enemy. The muscles of his arm, shoulder, and torso sing at the return of the weight of true steel in his hand, and he is nearly overwhelmed with an odd feeling of wholeness, a completeness he has not felt in a very long time.

"Don't kill anyone who doesn't deserve it," Elder Brother admonishes as Sandor sheathes the sword. It slides smoothly into the scabbard with barely a whisper.

"By your gods' judgment or mine?"

"I trust the two are more closely aligned than they once were," the man wryly observes. "Else I have failed in my efforts these past two years."

Sandor snorts. "You think you've turned me into a man worthy of being a true knight?" His jape is only half-meant as such. The rest is tinged with sharp cynicism.

"You have always been worthy, Sandor. You simply lost your way, as many men before you have. As many who will come after are destined to do. I have accepted that you are not a man meant to serve the Seven, as I had hoped. But you _are_ a testament to their mercies and their grace."

"I suppose I am, as much as any of my sort can be."

"You have been here a long while, brother. The world beyond this isle has changed; it is not the world you once knew."

"And I am not the man I was."

They share a long look between them. It is one of respect and friendship and hard-won affection, too. Elder Brother looks away first, his hand circling the air in a vague and slightly uncomfortable gesture. "When you are ready Brother Bryan will help choose out amour to suit you. We've not much plate large enough to fit you properly, but there is mail and boiled leather that will serve. Your robe will conceal what needs stay hidden." He throws a wary glance in Stranger's direction. "Please tell me you plan on taking this abominable creature with you."

Sandor reaches out and scratches down the horse's nose. His mount tolerates it for only so long before raising his head and nipping at his fingers. "I won't leave him behind."

"An answered prayer; he does us little good."

A silence falls and stretches as Elder Brother studies the ground at his feet and Sandor inspects him, in kind. He can feel the hesitancy that gathers and grows and finally has to end it. "Go on, old man" he growls, "just spit it out. Neither of us will have a bloody moment's peace until you do."

"Very well," Elder Brother says gruffly, as if being forced to do something he'd rather not. "You must have given it some thought. What will you do, Sandor, if you find her and she does not-"

"Want to see me or have anything to do with me? Wants my head on a spike? Is that what you want to know? Aye, I've given it plenty of thought. If that's the case, I'll accept it – what else can I do? Might be she'll send me away, or want to see me dead. I'll give up my life gladly if that is the price she demands. But first I will say to her what needs be said. And then … only your gods know what comes after."

"You are always welcome here."

"No, I won't be returning. This is your life, not mine. Might be the Wall is the place I'll end up, if the little bird won't have me. They say once you speak your intent to take the black, all your crimes are forgiven."

"You would take their vows?"

"Maybe." Sandor claps Elder Brother on the arm. "With fingers crossed behind my back."

Laughing, the two men leave the stable together, Sandor's arm slung loosely across Elder Brother's shoulders.

**….**  


The morning Sandor plans to be gone dawns bright and cold. The bells pull him from a dream that leaves him cotton-mouthed and uneasy. He has walked a vast expanse of white as he's slept: snows knee-deep and untouched by man or beast. He is utterly alone and with no destination. There are no landmarks, no trees, no villages or keeps, only snow. And then he begins to see the blood, small spots of it at first and then splashed more heavily in a trail before him. He begins to take longer strides, trying to run as the snow pulls at his legs, reluctant to give up its hold on him. And finally he sees her, lying in the snow. She is wearing a gown of white, whiter even than the snow that cradles her as she rests on her back, hands folded neatly across her chest. Her eyes are closed, her full lips slightly parted, her perfect porcelain face smooth and pale. And the red is all about her: silken waves of hair fanned out around her head, and the deeper, darker scarlet of her blood in a ragged circle surrounding her. He can do nothing but stand and stare at her, his belly in his throat.

Then her eyes come open and she turns her head to look him straight in the face, telling him, "I couldn't protect myself. So I died and got out of the way of those who could."

And Sandor's heart shatters.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, he jerks as a knock comes at his door. Shoving away the tattered remnants of his nightmare, he rises from his pallet and crosses the room to open it. Brother Narbert is standing there, ruddy-faced and impatient looking.

"Elder Brother wishes me to tell you that you needn't hurry - the ferry may be delayed. He sent Brother Marcus across last eventide to fetch Septon Maribald. He brings us another soul seeking refuge this morn, and they'll not arrive until later. Elder Brother will meet you at the dock after prayers and breakfast."

Sandor nods his understanding and shuts the door. He goes to the chamber pot in the corner to piss and then fills a basin with water from a pitcher and washes his face and hands, wishing he could cleanse his mind of the nightmare too.

 _Just a dream_ , he thinks. _She's alive. I would know it if she was dead._

"What are you now, Clegane," he chides himself aloud, "a fucking wizard, too?"

He slips out of his heavy nightshirt and into breeches, socks and boots, and then a rough-spun tunic. The mail comes next, and the studded leather jerkin. He wraps a belt around his waist, securing his new dagger in its sheath. And over it all he pulls on a clean brown robe, slit to mid-thigh at both sides. His bastard sword he'll strap to his saddle, within easy reach.

His bag has already been packed but he goes through it again and then does a slow circle of his small cell, making sure he hasn't forgotten anything. He steps to the table and his hand hovers over a book laying there, a well-worn copy of _The Seven-Pointed Star._ Sandor grabs it before he can reconsider and shoves it into the pack, next to a bundle of rolled up papers there, tied tightly with a leather string. They are letters, all of them, painstakingly written over the last year and a half. And all of them to the girl.

Sandor grabs the pack and sets it by the door as he wraps a scarf around his nose and mouth and pulls up the hood of his robe. He retrieves the pack, opens the door, and walks away from his cell. He does not look back.

Slipping into the sept just as morning prayers are ending, he struggles against the flow of monks anxious for their breakfast, sliding around and past him. A few reach out as they go, squeezing his arm or patting his back, as much of a farewell as he can expect. He has lived among these men, worked beside them, shared their food and their worship, but he has never really been a part of them. They are not his friends or his brothers.

In the sudden quiet he lights a candle and places it before the Mother. A second finds its way to the Warrior, a third and final to the Maiden. Sandor pauses before he pushes open the door to leave, and this time he turns back for a last, lingering look.

"I've kept my end of the bargain," he rasps, his voice loud in the stillness. "See that you all keep yours."

He then stops at the kitchens just long enough to collect a pack the brothers have filled for him: salted mutton and fish, brown bread, hard cheese, dried apples and pears. He collects several skins and fills them at the well before making his way to the stable. Stranger spots him as he walks in and begins snorting and kicking in his stall, sensing his owner's intent and eager to be free of his confines.

Several minutes later Sandor leads the stallion from the stable and out into the cool morning. Squinting up at the sky and the gathering clouds there, he takes a deep breath, tasting the air for rain. "Might be we'll have a wet start," he announces to his horse. "Wouldn't be the first time, eh? All right, you black bastard, are you ready? Let's stretch our legs." Stranger snickers at him and Sandor gives a small tug on the reins, leading them around the disappearing piles of snow and onto the path that will take them to the other side of the isle, and to the dock where one journey will end and another begin.

He reaches the crest of the hill above the beach just as the ferry is being tied up. Elder Brother is already there, awaiting the passengers. Sandor watches as he steps onto the flat boat and clasps arms with the septon. Turning away for a few moments, Sandor tightens the straps on his bags, bedroll and sword, and checks the cinches of the saddle a final time. When he turns back, Elder Brother is alone. But then the septon reappears from under the pitched roof of the ferry's enclosure, escorting the newest refugee.

Sandor's breath locks in his chest at the same moment Elder Brother turns and spots him where he stands at the top of the hill. Sandor's gaze flicks to his for the briefest moment, and the monk's eyes are wide and surprised. But there is nothing in them that can tell Sandor what he doesn't already know.

All his preparations have been for naught. For his little bird has found her way to _him_.

**….**


	8. These Scars We Wear

The next beat of his heart slams heavy and loud inside his chest, and then begins to race. Elder Brother has turned his back to Sandor and he is talking to her, one of her hands clasped in his. And Sandor realizes that he cannot truly see her face, shadowed as it is beneath the hood of her cloak. But his eyes drink in the familiar stiff line of her back as she turns to the septon, and her height: taller since last he's seen her, almost level with Elder Brother. Deep red locks of hair have escaped her cloak and flutter in long waves against her chest. An errant gust of wind snatches the hood away from her face and she absently folds it back.

Not even in his dreams has she been this lovely. The promise of a pretty girl has blossomed into a beautiful young woman on the narrow cusp of adulthood.

Sandor's next thoughts are jumbled and frantic: _I am not ready, what was I thinking? I cannot do this. Why is she here? What do I do? Gods,_ _ **look**_ _at her!_

He watches as she is handed off the ferry and onto the dock. A robed man on either side of her, she walks toward the beach, head tilted to the side as she listens to something the septon is saying to her. She glances up and her gaze wanders until it comes to rests on him. Sandor is frozen, unable to look away or even blink. And then her eyes slide away and do not return, her attention captured by something else.

 _Of course_ , he thinks. _The hood, the scarf. The robe. She doesn't know me._

The realization brings him up short. _She does not know me,_ he thinks again. This time the thought is a revelation too vast to wrap his head around. And so it is instinct that makes him turn and follow the path back to the stable, his steps heavy and slow.

He waits for Elder Brother after ridding his mount of saddle and gear, and he of his robe, pacing in looping figure eights down the length of the stable, knowing the monk will eventually come looking for him. He does, some time after Sandor has burned through his nervousness and has settled despondently on a bale of hay, elbows on knees, his hands hanging loose between them. He looks up as Elder Brother comes through the door.

"I've turned fucking craven," he remarks, with no prodding other than the inquisitive look on the older man's face. "The only thing I've ever wanted as good as dropped in my lap and I run away."

Elder Brother remains silent, joining him on a corner of the bale.

"It's really her, isn't it?" he asks, turning to Elder Brother.

"Yes. I knew as soon as I saw her. She is just as you described."

"Why is she here?"

"She seeks sanctuary. From what little she has said, it seems she left the Vale with a small party that later came under attack. She and an escort were some distance from the main group when it happened and were able to escape the worst of it. The man she was with died of his wounds not long after they reached Saltpans."

"She's not been hurt, has she?"

Elder Brother lays his hand on Sandor's arm. "No, she is not injured. But she is frightened and very much alone, and certain she is being pursued."

"Baelish?" The name leaves his mouth black as a curse.

"I believe so. Only …"

"What?"

"She calls him her lord father."

Sandor gives that some thought and can make no quick sense of it. "Where is she now?"

"With Septon Meribald. I left them in the common hall. Sandor-"

"If she's being chased, then she was running away. Why? What's happened to her, what did he do to her? I swear by all the gods, if he's hurt her-"

"I don't know what's happened. Why don't you ask her?" Sandor gives him a sharp look and then glances away. "What are you afraid of?" Elder Brother lets the question hang there for a few moments and expels a deep sigh. "It can be frightening when our dreams are first realized."

"That's the thing: they're _my_ dreams, not hers. The things I said to her in King's Landing, the way I treated her. What I did the night I left the city. What if she looks at me and that's all she remembers? That's all I _gave_ her to remember."

"You told me a few days past that you would accept whatever a meeting with her might bring. That all you wanted was a chance to say what needed said. A pious man such as me might see this opportunity as a gift from the Seven. Will you now deny that gift?"

"I am not ready for this," he argues.

"We do not get to choose when events will conspire to change our lives, Sandor."

"I don't know where to start."

"I've found a sincere 'hello' to be the easiest way to begin a conversation."

Sandor sneers at his attempt at humor. "I'd rather face another buggering bay of wildfire, just now."

Elder Brother looks at him in surprise, his brow knitted. "Truly?"

"No," he growls, disgusted at himself.

Elder Brother unfolds from the bale. "Let me bring her to you. May I do that?"

"What will you say to her?"

"Only what I must, in order to get her here. It's your story to tell, not mine."

Sandor thinks on it and then raises a hand, flicking it in dismissal. "Go on, then. Fetch the girl. May as well get this over with."

He spends the next several minutes with a brush in hand, short, hard strokes pressing into his mount's flanks. He is aware that he's mostly hidden by shadows here in Stranger's stall, but his mind does not connect these moments to the all the other times he has spent in darkness, waiting for her.

He hears the creak of the door behind him and sees the sudden sunlight splashed against the back wall of the stable. The brush drops from his hand and lies forgotten at his feet.

"It's all right, child," he hears Elder Brother saying. "No harm will come to you. I will be just outside."

He hears the soft fall of her feet as she makes her way to him. A donkey a few stalls down softly brays and he hears her sudden intake of breath. She is uneasy but does not slow her steps. And then he can smell her, tipping his head back and filling his lungs with it. Her footfalls stop as she sees him.

"I beg pardon, Ser."

He bites back the habitual rebuke that springs to his lips, because it does not matter what she calls him - not now and not ever again. Sandor steps out of the stall and turns to her.

"Hello, little bird."

She gasps again and takes a half-step back, one hand flying up to press against her throat. Her back is to the sun, her face shadowed, so he cannot clearly see what crosses it. But he can feel the light upon his and knows himself to be as exposed to her eyes as he has ever been, in all his common ugliness. He will not duck his head or try to hide. He wants only what he has always wanted from her: to see him and all that he is, no matter what that might be.

"I am dreaming," she finally says.

"I'm no dream, girl."

She gives a tiny shake of her head, as if to clear it, and then recovers the small step she'd taken back and moves a step closer instead. And then another. They are separated by little more than the length of his arm, but he does not raise it to touch her. Her hand lifts from her throat, fingers extended, and she brings it between them and suddenly stops, and he glances down at the fist she has made.

"I thought you dead," she whispers.

He shakes his head. "Not dead. More alive than I have ever been."

He has no choice but to reach out now, closing the distance between them to scoop her up as she faints dead away.

**….**


	9. These Scars We Wear

Sandor folds to the ground, lowering them both, and ends with her draped across his lap. Her head hangs limp and he draws an arm up her back to cradle her neck. Resting two fingers of his free hand in the notch just below her jaw, he feels her pulse beating fast and strong and lets out a ragged breath.

"What's this now, little bird?" he wonders aloud. "Too much to take in all at once?" He remembers how she had fallen to her knees, sobbing, when Joffrey had called for her father's head, and fainting shortly after Ilyn Payne removed it. "Aye, too much," he decides.

Sandor glances around, mouth pulled tight, and calls for Elder Brother. The monk peeks around the stable door and hurries in. "What's happened?" he exclaims.

Sandor looks up at him and begins to laugh. He does not know why, but it bubbles up out of him, beyond his control. He manages to suppress it after a few giddy seconds and says, "She's bloody fainted, old man." He gestures to the side with a sharp tilt of his head. "There, with my things. A skin of water."

Elder Brother digs through the pile and comes up with one, pulling out the cork and then looking around. "I've no cloth,' he mutters.

"In my hand," Sandor tells him, holding it out. The man pours the water into his cupped palm and Sandor flips it over and then shakes away the excess. He draws his moistened hand across her brow and down the line of her jaw, first one side and then the other. He holds it out for more and repeats the process.

"Which cottage will she be staying in?" he asks without looking up. He is transfixed by the sight of his large hand, scarred and calloused and dusted with dark hair, caressing her pale skin in slow strokes. _Butterfly wings_ , he absently reflects.

"The one nearest the septry proper."

"Is it ready?"

"I'll check." Elder Brother corks the skin and sets it down beside him, squeezes his shoulder and leaves as quickly as he came.

Sandor notices the arm not tucked against him hanging limp, her hand brushing the dirt floor. He bends and grabs it, beginning to set it on her chest, and stops. Pursing his mouth, he blows away the dirt from her hand and, without thinking, brings it up and sets her knuckles against his lips for a moment. He pushes a lock of sodden hair away from her brow with a fingertip and notices the color beginning to creep back into her face. "That's right, girl, time to wake, come on."

She turns her face toward him, her lips parting, and he can see the very tip of her tongue between them, pink and wet. She moans low in her throat and a profound and visceral need surges through him as his gut pulls tight. "No," he chides himself, "none of that," and starts patting her cheek. Her chest expands as she takes in a deep breath, and her eyelids begin to flutter. "There you are." _Tap, tap, tap_ goes his hand against her face. "Wake now, little bird, wake up. Sansa."

It is the sound of her name that finally rouses her completely, and for a moment she simply lays in his arms, blinking up at him. Her eyes are wide and dazed. And so very, very blue. Then she jerks and pushes against him, trying to sit up and move away at the same time. She ends up dumping herself off his lap and onto her arse, holding herself up on her elbows.

They spend a long time warily eyeing each other. Sandor stays very still, feeling as though he's facing a small, frightened, potentially dangerous animal.

 _There's the wolf_ , he thinks.

"No, I haven't got prettier since last you saw me, girl. Do I still frighten you so much?"

Deep red spots of color flood her cheeks and her eyes dart here and there before coming back to rest on him. "I am sorry. It isn't that. I just … I never… What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," he tells her as she sits up and swipes at the dust and fragments of hay clinging to her cloak. Then she tucks her legs under her and folds her hands in her lap.

"Running away, are you?"

Her face becomes a perfect mask, but he is not fooled. He has seen that same mask many a time in King's Landing and knows the quickness of the mind behind it.

"Don't lie to me," he warns, "I'll know."

Her back stiffens. "Beg pardon if I seem rude, but I don't believe it is any of your business."

Sandor hoots. "You've got me there. Keep your secrets if you want. You'll be chirping soon enough, I'd bet." He levers himself off the ground and offers his hand to her. "Up, then. I'll walk you to your quarters."

She glances at the hand and then at him. He gives her a docile face and she relents, allowing him to pull her to her feet. None too stable, she bumps against him and he steadies her with a hand on her arm.

"Still wobbly?"

"A bit," she admits. "If you could give me just a moment."

"Bugger that, girl. Do you think I've got all day?"

She squeaks as he wraps an arm around her back and grabs her under the knees, lifting her in his arms. "What are you doing?" She pushes against his chest as he starts for the door.

"I'm carrying you. Unless you'd rather I drop you. Your choice."

"I am perfectly capable of walking, ser!"

Hiding a grin, mouth twitching, he allows her the _ser._ "Might be, but I'm still carrying you." He can only wonder if she is aware that she has slung an arm around his neck.

"But why?"

"Because I can. Because I want to. Hold tight now, girl, I might slip."

By the time they reach the cottage, Sansa has turned and tucked against him, both arms around his neck, her forehead pressed against his throat. Her weight is a small thing, barely more than a feather, and Sandor feels as if he is walking on air.

**….**


	10. These Scars We Wear

She has been on the isle for six days and he still knows nothing – except that she is here. He spends each night outside her cottage, his sword and dagger strapped low on his waist; the first night in darkness, shivering and wrapped in furs. She emerged that next morning, startled to see him there, claiming it wasn't necessary. He had not argued with her, had instead looked at her long and hard, until he saw the resignation in her eyes.

"I will not have you freeze to death," she'd said. "If you must do this, I insist that you at least have a brazier to keep you warm."

That afternoon he sets one up a short distance from her door. Neither of them speak of it again.

He spends part of his days with her, exploring the isle, watching her stare out across the bay, grinning as she pets the sheep and softly coos at them. He tells her some of what happened to him and how he came to be here. He tells her of her sister and awkwardly pats her back, not sure how to comfort her, when she begins to cry. But she will not tell him why she left the Vale, or who she traveled with. He has learned by the far-off look in her eyes when his prodding has become too much. In those moments he gives her his silence; he gives her time.

"Do you remember how long it took before you would speak to me?" Elder Brother reminds him early on. "You must remain patient. You do not know where her scars lie. Mayhaps she is only beginning to heal."

When he is not with her, he spends his time at simple chores and succumbs to bouts of sleep that overtake him at odd moments. Elder Brother offers to relieve him of a night's watch but Sandor will not hear of it. She is his to protect now, and he will not fail her this time.

"You cannot keep this up for long, brother," he is warned on the fourth day.

"It's not forever, old man. Only till I know she's safe here. And until she decides what it is she means to do." He knows she will not stay long. And he knows she will not be leaving alone. The rest is up to her.

He has taken her to the graveyard today, under a sky dotted with billowing clouds whose underbellies glimmer softly gray. Standing just behind her, his hand resting heavy on her shoulder, he points and says, "That row there. And the two just in front. And here," he adds, turning her slightly, "the newest of them. See how the wood of the stars is still green?"

"You've dug all these?"

"Aye. There's men and women, both. Babes, too, though they're fewer."

"There are so many of them," she says with quiet awe.

"Not so many as I've killed, though. Some days it felt like I was burying my dead, rather than someone else's."

She gives him a sharp look and turns away, walking toward the bay side of the hill. He watches her for while before trailing after. She is tall and slim and lovely in her simple olive cloak and her radiant hair. He stops beside her and studies her profile. She has her mother's look and her father's spine. She begins fidgeting under his fixed gaze and he chuckles and folds himself onto the ground at her feet.

"Sit. My bloody leg is aching from the walk." She peers dubiously at the ground and then does as she's bid, carefully arranging her cloak beneath her and tucking tight her long legs.

She turns to him. "Was it very badly injured?"

"Bad enough to kill me," he tells her. "Here, you can feel where the meat's missing." He grabs her hand and lays it flat against his thigh, over the dip in the muscle there. She starts to pull away but he covers her hand with his own and presses it down hard.

"Please," she says.

He lets go, laughing. "It's just my leg, girl."

"It's not proper," she sniffs, and he laughs again.

"There's the pretty bird. Still so concerned over what's proper and what's not? I'd say what brought you here wasn't anything your septa trained you for."

That gets him another pointed look and there is fire sparking in her eyes.

"You are not the man I knew," she decides, her eyes still locked on his. "You sound the same, but you've changed."

"I suppose I have, little bird." He leans back and rests on his elbows, jaw popping in a wide yawn. "Still not a knight, though, like in your songs. Or a brown brother, the way the old man might want. Not sure what I am, now."

"I don't know either. What I am," she murmurs, glancing at him and quickly away. "Or even who I am."

"Who do you want to be?"

She picks at a loose thread on her cloak. "Not any man's wife," she finally tells him. "Or any man's bastard. Certainly not any man's claim. That much I know."

Sandor starts to ask, puzzled, but stops before the words leave his mouth. He isn't sure why he hesitates, only that her words feel to him like a bandage on a wound not yet healed. He lowers himself flat to the ground and closes his eyes as a soft breeze ruffles his hair and dries the sweat on his brow. He is in that muted and foggy place between awake and asleep when her voice pulls him back.

"I prayed for you. The day Stannis attacked the city."

He opens his eyes and finds that she has moved closer and is kneeling beside him. "For what did you pray, bird," he asks, smirking, "that I not return?"

"No," she says, and he finds himself pinned by her eyes and unable to look away. "I prayed that the Mother keep you from harm. And that She gentle your heart."

He is suddenly back in the darkened chamber that smelled so strongly of her, drunk on wine and self-loathing. And it is she on her back and he looming above her, his sharp steel at her throat. He thinks it may well be time to say to her some of what he's held close since coming here. He tries, but he cannot abide her eyes on him, so tranquil and blue, and so he turns his face away, showing her the side that is whole.

"Sansa," he begins, and swallows hard. "What happened that night-"

"No," she interrupts, shocking him when she reaches and lays her fingers against his mouth. "We will not speak of it. Not now. Not yet."

He won't answer until she lifts her fingers. When she does, he is chilled by the sudden lack of that small warmth. "There are things needs be said. I haven't forgotten, girl, and neither have you."

"Sometimes it's better to forget."

He starts to sit up in protest but she surprises him again when she pushes against his chest, pressing him back down. He does not fight her, instead folding his arms behind his head and gazing up at her with curiosity.

"The men searching for me will not think to look here," she offers after a small silence. "They will be making their way to Gulltown."

"How do you know?"

"Because that is where I've led them to believe I was going. And from there to Pentos."

He barks a raspy laugh. "How certain are you of that?"

"As certain as I am that my prayers were answered."

Sandor waits, but this time it is she who will not - or cannot - meet his gaze. He searches for a response but finds there is nothing he can say. A jape that might once have thoughtlessly sprung from his lips escapes him now. He realizes how very tired he is.

As if knowing his thoughts she says, "You must sleep in your own bed tonight, I insist upon it. I am safe here. And I have a dagger of my own, if needs be."

"You know how to use it?" His eyes slip shut.

"It doesn't look to be that difficult."

"I'll show you on the morrow. Just to be sure."

"If it please you. Rest now; I'll keep watch."

He chuckles under his breath at the thought of his little bird defending him. But there is surety and a quiet confidence in her words that loosens his muscles and pulls him back toward sleep. After awhile he feels the breeze stirring his hair again. Or perhaps it is her fingers instead, drawing it away from his brow and temple. Sandor falls asleep as she begins to sing, soft and low and sweet.

****

**….**


	11. These Scars We Wear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A small paragraph of this chapter is a gift to the lovely and talented annestark. She'll know why when she reads it.

The next day finds him sleeping through morning bells, something he’s not done since the beginning, when he lay feverish and half-dead. His bed is soft, though, and his cell warm and he has been too long without a night’s rest. He does not rouse for prayers or breakfast, curled tight and scarcely moving, muttering aloud in his dreams. It is only when his cell door flies open, banging against the wall, that he is jerked awake. He lifts up on an elbow and blinks stupidly at Elder Brother as he storms into the room.

“She’s going!”

“Bloody hells, old man, what are you talking about?”

“Lady Sansa. She’s at the dock with her bags, asking for passage to Saltpans. She means to leave.”

Sandor throws back the furs and grabs his breeches from the chair. As he pokes his legs into them and eyeballs the cell for his boots, the monk remains where he is, slack-jawed and seemingly frozen in place. “Why are you standing there?” he snaps. “Get back to the pier and stop her; don’t let her get on that ferry!”

The monk wheels and is out the door and Sandor is not far behind, striding briskly toward the stable and struggling with the arms of his tunic as he slips it over his head. His horse will get him there considerably faster than his two legs. He doesn’t bother with a saddle or bit, slapping Stranger on the rump to hurry him out and leaping onto his back, fingers twisting tightly in his thick mane. “Run, you bastard,” he hisses, kicking its sides and bending low over the mount’s back.

As the ground is eaten up fast beneath heavy hoofs, Sandor is aware of an anger building inside him, of a sort he hasn’t felt in a long while. He knows deep down in his bones that she has planned this. That she extracted his promise he’d sleep in his cell for this very reason: so that she could slip away. The anger coils in his belly, a leaden and bitter thing, honed sharp by the sting of her deception.

He reaches the crest of the hill overlooking the pier and his mount plunges down the gentle slope. Sandor yanks Stranger to a stop at the water’s edge and slides off his back, long legs carrying him to where Sansa stands with one of the brothers. She has just begun to turn his way when he reaches her and spins her round.

“What in the seven hells are you doing? Have you lost your bloody mind? Where are you going?” Sansa stares up at him, wide-eyed and mute. He grips her shoulders tightly, shaking her. “Answer me, girl!”

The proctor with her, Brother Wynn, opens his mouth but gets little chance to speak.

“Sandor-” he begins.

“Leave us. Now!”

He feels the monk’s wary eyes on him but does not care. There is nothing left of the world but the woman before him and his bewildered anger.

“It’s all right, Brother,” Sansa says, her voice low and steady, her gaze never leaving his. “He will not harm me. Beg do as he asks.”

Then it is just the two of them. She shrugs beneath his hands. “You’re hurting me.”

Sandor loosens his grip but does not let go, his fingers sliding down to encircle her arms. “What are you doing?” he demands anew.

“What I must. I needs be away from here. There’s not much time before winter is upon us again, and I have far to travel.”

“Alone?” he sneers. “You _have_ gone mad. Do you know what would happen to you out there?”

“I have golden dragons, and plenty of them. Saltpans is rife with men seeking coin. I will hire a party of guards to escort me.”

He is completely dumfounded, finding himself sputtering before he can actually get the words out. “Oh, you stupid little bird, have you learned nothing? Yes, you’ll find men in Saltpans happy to take your coin. But first they’ll rape you, then they’ll kill you, _then_ they’ll take your fucking gold!” Her eyes dart away and he presses on. “What are thinking, girl?”

She hangs her head and he can scarcely hear her over the thrumming in his veins. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Look at me!” he orders and she slowly raises her face and meets his eyes. The mask has slipped into place and there is a hardness there that ages her beyond her years. “Talk to me. Why are you running, tell me!”

Her mouth draws tight, as if in disdain, and she shifts under his hands, pulling herself to her full height. “You think me stupid,” she says, “but I am not that, ser. I am desperate. Those I traveled with, those I trusted are either dead or have betrayed me. I am utterly alone, with no home and no kin, my only possessions what I can carry in two small bags. I have no place to go, but go I must. “

“Stay,” he blurts, giving no consideration to anything but his need to have her with him. “You’re safe here.”

“For how long? Those who seek me will not find me in Gulltown, or any proof that I was there, and will travel back the way they came. All it needs take is one man deciding I may be hidden on this isle and I will have put at risk the lives of everyone here. I deceived you yesterday and for that I am sorry, but I will not have the blood of these brothers on my hands. If they come and I am not about, they will leave you in peace. But if they should find me …”

Sandor lets go his hold on her and twists away, cursing softly. He knows she speaks true and realizes how foolhardy he has been these past days, believing that because she was here, all had been set right - for him, for the both of them. The Quiet Isle is difficult but not impossible to reach. Any flat boat can steer a course to its shores at high tide, and from any direction. An attack could come swiftly and without warning. He will kill to protect her, but he cannot ask the brothers to take up arms in her defense, and the thought of blood being spilled on this isle fills him with a deep sense of dread and sorrow.

Sandor knows what must be done, he has known since she first arrived, but he has allowed complacency to blind him. And now he finds himself battling the specter of a brutal possibility as well, a sharp awareness that cuts at him and, if proven true, may cost him everything he has hoped for. Turning back to her, he gives voice to his fear. “You meant to leave with nary a word. Do you hate me so much?”

There is no hesitation in her response when it comes, and he is surprised by the ferocity of it. “You do us both a disservice with such a question, my lord. I have no hate for you; I never could. I thought it a kindness to leave with as little bother as possible. I have no right to be here or to be the cause of stealing from you what peace you have found. This is your home and your life now, and I have no just reason to disrupt it.”

He takes in her words and a moment later shouts with laughter; struck by the irony as his burden is lifted suddenly away. She has backed up and is looking at him askance.

“Well, bugger me bloody with my own sword! Who would have thought it?” He reaches and pulls her closer. “Listen to me, now. Do you remember the morning you came off the ferry?”

Eyeing him cautiously, she nods.

“There was a brother there at the crest of this slope,” he reminds her, pointing to the spot. “A robed man and his mount. Do you recall?”

Her brow wrinkles but she soon nods a confirmation.

“That was me, bird. With my things packed and ready to leave. Do you know why?” She merely shakes her head, looking at him as though he is the one gone mad. “I was coming to find you.”

Sandor watches, fascinated, as her features shift, as she takes in this news he has offered her. He sees there confusion that slowly gives way to a lesser uncertainty and then to something that looks much like understanding - or the beginning of it. Her lips part and she hesitates a moment before asking, “Why would you do such a thing?”

He frowns at her and she becomes a mirror, giving him back one of her own. He has no least idea how to put into words what she asks of him. He recalls the tightly bound letters in his pack and knows them now to be a mummer’s farce. The words scratched out on parchment were never for her eyes: they were but penance for him, an exercise in salvation. Nothing in those letters can say what needs be said. Nothing in his jumbled mind formed and pushed from his mouth can match what lies so deeply within him. There is only one thing he can give her now. He does not think, he simply acts, instinct leading the way. And in the next moment he is on bent knee before her. He gazes up at her and sees the shock on her face.

“I, Sandor of House Clegane, second son of Luthor, owner of no lands and bearer of no titles, do swear my allegiance to you, Lady Sansa of House Stark. My sword is yours. I pledge to protect you, to give up mine own life to safeguard yours, to defend your honor, to offer comfort when needs be and counsel when needs be, whether you like it or not. I swear it by the old gods and the new. From this day until the day I draw my last breath.”

He bows his head and waits, his heart thudding in his chest. And for several long and agonizing seconds there is no sound save the lapping of the water against the shoreline and the screeching of seagulls circling the skies above them. And then she makes a small sound, somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. Sandor feels a flash of panic when he realizes he’s forgotten something and the words come from his mouth before he can think them through.

“And if I had my sword, girl, now’s when I’d bloody lay it at your feet.”

She makes another noise, much like the first, and then her hand comes to rest lightly on the crown of his head. That single gesture is to him a benediction he’s been seeking since he left her that night in Kings Landing.

“Rise, ser,” she says softly.

He does, and now looks down on her. Her face is luminous and flushed pink. “I’m still no ser,” he rasps.

“You took vows,” she reminds him, as if he is a half-wit or a babe newly walking.

“No, bird, I gave them. Small difference it might be, but a difference, still.”

She thinks on that for a moment. “Not a ser or a brother. And you take no pleasure in being addressed as ‘lord.’ So who are you now?”

Her question is ripe with implications and calls to mind all that he has been through these past two years. Someday he may tell her what that particular query has come to mean to him. But for now he tucks it away. “I have a name, one given me on the day of my birth. Use it. Or wouldn’t that be proper?”

She fights back a smile. “I suppose it would do no harm to address you by your given name, when we are alone.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, girl. A small step, but I’ll take it.”

“And no doubt urge me to a larger one next time.”

He feels silly and knows he must look ghastly doing it, but he grins widely at her anyway. “So where are we going, then? Or do I even needs ask?” Sandor turns and offers her his arm. She tucks her hand beneath the crook of his elbow and rests it along his forearm. He walks them toward where Stranger waits, dozing in the muted sunlight.

“I want to go home,” she says unnecessarily. “Or as close as we can get to it without putting us in too great a danger. I just want to go home.”

“North it is, then.”

They come to a stop beside his mount and he pulls away from her and gives her a slow and appraising look, from head to toe and then back again. Before she can start squirming he chuckles and says, “It’s not what you think. I’m taking your measure.”

“For what?”

“Why, for the robes of a novice. You don’t think we’ll be traveling with you looking like that, do you, in your pretty dresses and all your ribbons and bows. Yes, a robe,” he decides. “With breeches beneath, so you’re right proper and warm. And a leather jerkin, too; maybe mail, if small enough can be found. I’ll take no chances. And your hair …”

For the first time she looks worried and reaches up to capture a lock of it. “My hair?”

“Might be we’ll have to cut it, make you look more a boy. You’ll still be too pretty for a boy, but it may serve well enough, with your hood up.”

She frowns and pouts and then looks sadly resigned. Sandor chides himself for teasing her and confesses, “A jape, little bird, nothing more. A cap will do, if the hair’s pulled back and tucked under. I’d sooner cut off my own arm than this.” Of its own accord his hand has lifted and is drawing outspread fingers through the auburn waves resting on her shoulder, tucking them back. “I’ll wager there’s little enough beauty left to be seen out there. I’ll not deprive myself of this, too.”

Their eyes meet and hold and something indefinable passes between them. The look is broken before he can puzzle it out as his eyes are drawn to Elder Brother making his way toward them, red-faced and panting.

“Best we go back now,” he tells her. “There’s much to do before we take our leave.”

She lays a hand upon his arm and smiles at him before turning to Elder Brother. It is not until much later that it dawns on Sandor that she gave him no clear answers to his questions. And by the time she does, the answers no longer matter.

 

**….**

 

…


	12. These Scars We Wear

"Give us a minute, girl."

Sansa, in her novice's robe, nods at him and turns to Elder Brother. "Thank you for all you have done."

It is the following day and they are leaving the Quiet Isle. This morning is much like the morning she arrived, the skies overcast and threatening rain.

"May the Seven be with you both, Lady Sansa, and grant you safe travels." The monk leans in and kisses her on the cheek and she blushes prettily and walks further down the pier to where the ferry waits. Sandor watches her for a minute as a brother hands her onto the boat. Their horses are already aboard and Sansa busies herself checking her saddle bags.

"Make certain she keeps her face covered and that hood up once you reach the mainland. If anyone gets a good look at her, they'll see her for what she is," Elder Brother advises.

"A beautiful woman?"

"Aye, and a noble one at that. She wears her bloodlines well."

"That she does."

"I understand, now, why you could not stay with us."

Sandor turns his full attention to the monk. "She's got under your skin too, hasn't she?"

"Had I not already changed my life for the better, a woman of her sort would serve as ample motivation." They trade a quiet smile and Elder Brother dips into the voluminous sleeve of his robe and pulls out a scroll, handing it to Sandor.

"What's this?"

"A map."

"Don't need one. Follow the Blue Fork north and cross well before The Twins. I know the way."

"Still, this map will serve you. I've marked villages and homes along the route that have always welcomed the brown brothers. If they're still standing, you'll find beds and food to fill your bellies. Of course the smallfolk will expect something in return."

"I know the prayers and blessings. I'll say them well enough."

"See that you do." He can tell that Elder Brother is stirring something around in his mind, trying to decide if he'll give voice to it. The monk glances over at the ferry and back. "There is something I should tell you."

"What is it?"

"I've sent a letter to the High Septon. In it I have told him of the death of the Hound on the banks of the Trident, and that I was witness to his final moments. I've also told him of the disappearance of the helm, and that Sandor Clegane is not the man responsible for the atrocities at Saltpans. It may make no large difference, since you will likely still be charged with treason should you be caught before reaching the Neck, but I felt it necessary to try to rectify my error. And besides, whoever the man was I found that day, whoever it was in Saltpans, he is not you."

Sandor's throat has closed tight. He isn't one who knows much of tender emotions. Neither his life nor his temperament has much room for gentleness and affection; those things were burned out of him when he tasted fire for the first time. But he has found that against all odds, he _can_ love. And as much as he can, Sandor loves this man before him. He dares not try to speak, instead offering the monk his hand. Elder Brother takes it in his rough grasp and then pulls him into a short, fierce embrace.

They come apart awkwardly and Sandor studies the ground, cursing himself for the newly soft heart this isle and its keepers have bestowed upon him. Finally looking up, his eyes dart to Elder Brother's.

"I've a question," he growls.

"And what might that be?"

"Who were you; what was your name before you became a brother?"

"What, is 'old man' no longer good enough for you?"

Sandor ignores the jape and waits.

Elder Brother cocks his head and says, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I'll decide that for myself."

The monk hesitates and then pushes a heavy breath out his nose. "Very well," he says, scratching an ear. "I was born of House Lychester and named after my lord father's grandfather. His name was Gregor, as is mine."

Sandor is stunned. But then his amazement quickly passes and he finds himself bent double with laughter. Slapping his thigh, he chokes out, "Of course it is! How bloody fitting is it that I should lose the brother I was given and find the one I should've had all along?" Straightening, he adds, "You never meant to tell me this?"

"It did not seem prudent in the beginning. And then, as time passed, it did not seem to matter. The Gods work in mysterious ways, and you have been as much a blessing to me as I hope I have been to you. I wish you well – both of you. Peace be with you, Sandor."

"And with you, brother."

Sandor turns and steps away, feeling the monk's dark eyes on his back and drinking in the blue of Sansa's, shining brightly upon him as he moves to join her: his heart's salvation.

****

**...**


	13. These Scars We Wear

They are five days into their journey and he is ready to kill her. Or himself. He hasn't decided which – might be both.

It is not that she's a poor companion. He enjoys trading stories with her to pass the time. Sansa's are almost always of Winterfell and her family, a time of innocence. He listens without saying much; he has no happy childhood stories of his own to offer.

He had first reciprocated by telling her of his time as a squire and of the tourneys he's competed in, which she seemed to enjoy. But those ran out and he moved on to his exploits on the battlefield. Not so different in substance, he'd thought. He was deep into his adventures during the bloody Greyjoy Rebellion when he realized she'd gone suddenly quiet and glanced over to find her looking at him aghast; her oval face noticeably pale against the dark hood of her robe.

Now he keeps his stories stocked with courtly intrigues instead, laughing as she gasps and covers her mouth at some of the more unseemly tales. But he sees the smile she hides and how her eyes sparkle, and he is glad he can amuse her so easily.

She is helpful when they stop to make camp of an evening too, so he has no complaint there. She gathers kindling, never straying far from sight, and turns the rabbits on their spits or the fish on their spikes over the small cooking fires he allows, the light they give off setting her unbound hair aflame. He has shown her how to care for her horse, a dapple gray palfrey, and watches with hidden admiration as she quickly wins Stranger's tolerance. They sleep on their simple pallets piled with furs and laid close together but not touching, and he sets his sword between them every night.

She is obedient as well. His rules were laid down before they ever stepped off the ferry, and he has not had to repeat them.

" _You'll keep your hood up if we're riding,"_ he told her, _"and your head down should we meet anyone along the way. You'll say nothing, not a peep out of you - you've taken a vow of silence. Stay close to me; if there's trouble, listen to me and do as I say. If I tell you to run, you run: as fast as you can and as far as you can. You're not a noble out here, you're not even a woman, you're a novice of the Seven and meek as a beggar. Do you understand, girl?"_

She had nodded solemnly and promised.

She's not one to complain either, he thinks, though he knows long days astride a horse, and longer nights spent sleeping on cold, hard ground are not easy. He finds himself stiff and unwieldy at the end of the day and reckons it's worse for her. She's not used to the pace he makes them keep and the infrequent stops he allows, but she raises few objections.

All in all, Sandor thinks it petty to have a mind to strangle a fellow traveler of her sort. Were she anyone else, he doubts the thought would ever occur to him. But she is _not_ anyone else. She is his little bird, and try as he might he cannot seem to find the chink that will let him break through her barriers; walls separating them as effectively as if she's built them of stone.

Back in King's Landing he had found ways to goad her into showing her true self; displaying flashes of her wolfish spirit, both tender and ferocious, that he found so intriguing. But much of his technique was fueled by wine and thoughtless cruelty then; he finds himself in short supply of both now, and mostly glad of it.

But he is growing ever more frustrated by his inability to reach her, to draw her out and have her trust in him. He does not think to reflect on the journey he had to take in order to become who he is now, or of how often he stumbled and fell along the way. He is too close to see the similarities.

They are just taking leave of a small band of travelers; a family dressed in rag-tag scraps, the man and an older boy leading a single mule, hunch-backed from the load it carries, all their worldly possessions. Sandor has prayed with the mother, dismounting to do as she asks and offering a blessing for the sick child she carries in her arms and the three others who cling to her skirts, snot-nosed and skinny. Glancing aside as the goodwife grasps his hand in thanks, he notices her husband's careful study of Sansa and watches as she raises her head to stare at the children, unaware of the man's eyes on her. He makes quick their departure and puts a mile or so between them before slowing to a stop.

"Look at me," he orders and sees the question in her eyes. "The man was watching you, did you know that? No, you didn't, because you were too busy gaping at his whelps. What did I tell you?"

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. Did you see them? They were half-starved."

"Aye, and there's worse than that up the road. The whole of the Riverlands is a battlefield, girl, with bands of outlaws who'll slit your throat with no more thought than they give to taking a piss."

"These were not outlaws," she protests.

"You know that for a fact, do you?"

She dips her head, glancing aside, and he says again, "Look at me." The face she gives him this time is contrite and he is ready to be satisfied by it. But then he sees something there that gives him pause. "Pull down the wool from your face."

To her credit, she looks all around them before doing as he's bid, tucking the cloth under her chin. He examines what she's uncovered: the full bow of her lips and the soft curve of her jaw, the smooth porcelain of her cheeks and the straight line of her nose. His eyes lock onto hers and she blinks against whatever she is seeing there.

He is aware of his sudden anger, but not entirely its source, as he dismounts muttering, "This won't bloody do. Not at all." He strides toward her. "Off your horse, girl, come on." He grabs her round the waist as she starts to slide off her mount and sets her on her feet, too impatient to wait. Grabbing a sleeve of her robe, he tugs her along with him and over to a crude trail in the open field they travel, where the wheels of carts and wagons have made deep, wet ruts in the muddy ground.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"Nowhere. Here."

He lets go and bends, drawing his right hand through the mud. Quicker than she can back away, he straightens and his left hand shoots out to cup her chin, fingers splayed against her jaw.

She twists and sputters as he smears the mud across her cheeks and forehead, her fingers wrapped round his forearm, struggling to shove away the offending hand. She jerks her head and his thumb catches on the corner of her mouth and leaves a clot of mud there. Spitting, she breaks free and staggers back, staring at him in astonishment.

"What are you doing?" she screeches. "Why did you do that?' She is furiously scrubbing at her face with the sleeve of her robe and only succeeds in smearing the mud even more.

"Just look at you," he yells back, bristling against her anger - and his anger and unexamined fears; raging against what he sees when he looks at her and what any man would see, despite the robe and hood and scarf. Fighting back his desires and the imaginings of what he would do to her if he let himself.

"Too fucking pretty to be in monk's robes!" he shouts. "As if they might make a man blind to what's right in front of him! Seven bloody hells, bird, what am I to do with you? I could cover you head to foot in mud and it would make no difference. You don't belong - not with me and not out here. You should be dressed in silks and lace, perched on some fancy chair in the Eyrie somewhere, drinking honeyed wine and eating those fucking lemon cakes you love so well! But gods forbid I dare ask why you left that life behind, why you chose me and the road over your bloody knights and your bloody songs and your bloody dreams. And all you can do is chirp at me. Chirp, chirp, chirp!"

Furious, she flies at him and shoves him hard. Not expecting the attack, he gets tangled in his own feet and goes down on his arse as she scoops up a handful of mud, flinging it at him. It hits him square in the chest as she shouts, "I hate you! Do you think this is easy for me? I'm sorry that I look as I do, but it can't be helped and I am not to blame. You know nothing of what I have left behind, nothing! You're a fool if you think you know my dreams, for they are anything but filled with songs. I have been forced into marriage to a _Lannister_ ," she hisses, "I have watched a child dying slowly before my eyes, poisoned by the very man sworn to protect him. I have lived as a bastard and been forced to tolerate the groping of a man who claimed to any who would listen that he was my father. And when revealed as a Stark, I endured the shame of being called a lion's bitch by men who raised their banners for mine own blood but would not for me, all because I now bear the Lannister name. So do not presume to think you know anything about me, or dare imagine I keep my secrets close just to punish you for deeds for which _you_ hold yourself responsible!"

Swiping the mud from his robe, he watches as she folds to the ground and pulls her legs up, hugging them tight to her chest, staring off into the distance, her eyes angry and wet. He gives her a minute and then leans to catch her eye, but she refuses to look at him. He thinks about what she's said, trying to take it all in, but there is too much to absorb in its entirety. He will have to mull it over in more manageable chunks. But he finds himself both relieved and enraged by what he knows now, that he didn't know before.

"There," he says. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

She turns and glares at him over her knees, the mud on her cheeks already beginning to dry and crack. "You are not as changed as I thought, ser."

"These robes don't make me a holy man. There's a reason I swore to be your shield and not your guide to the Faith. I don't know how to be devout, but I do know how to swing steel and kill men. That don't come from a soft heart, little bird. I never prettied myself up for you before and I won't do it now. If I'm going to protect you, I need to know from _what_. And I'm not talking about the obvious. It's those who don't have need of a sword in their own hands who'll kill you quickest of all. If you learned anything in that viper's nest they call the Red Keep, you should've learned that." He sees that she's no longer looking through him, but at him.

"You have to trust _someone_ , Sansa."

"And that should be you?" she challenges.

He lifts his hands, shrugging. "I'd say your choices are limited, just now." He pushes to his feet and wipes his hands on his robe before offering her one. She purses her lips in disgust but takes it and he tugs her to her feet, keeping her hand firmly in his as she tries to pull away. She stares up at him as he thumbs a drying glob of mud from her jaw. "You're a right bloody mess, girl."

Slapping his hand away, she wheels and heads back to where their horses are grazing. He follows, snickering under his breath and trying not to let his eyes linger on the soft swaying of her hips, evident even under the robe.

"Gods be good," he mutters, catching up with her. She takes the saddle and waits as he mounts Stranger and reaches into one of his bags, pulling out the map. He unrolls and studies it for a minute, glancing between it and the way ahead, and then slips it back in the bag.

"If the old man is right, there's a village not far from here. We should be there before nightfall. Might be we'll find you a bath there. Would you like that, bird? And a real bed to sleep in?"

He catches the flash of delight on her dirty face before she can hide it and grins knowingly at her. She makes an annoyed sound in her throat and puts her feet to her horse, leaving him behind, riding tall and straight in her saddle.

Well before dusk they come upon the village, or what is left of it. It is empty and burned mostly to the ground. But they find a small cottage with two walls still standing, and a corner of thatched roof that will shelter them from the mist beginning to fall. They separate to forage and Sandor finds a hidden well. He brings back buckets of fresh water, enough to fill a deep cooking pot she has found, and they heat it over the fire he builds. It is not a bath, but it is welcome to both of them as they use scraps of cloth to wipe away the dust from the road and the dirt from their muddy battle. He sheds his tunic, standing bare-chested before the fire and she glances sharply away, turning her back on him. He scrubs at his arms, more gently on the burns that cover his left, and then under them and his chest before grabbing clean garments from his pack. He leaves her, mouthing some excuse in order to give her privacy, and explores more of the village.

By the time he comes back night has fallen and she is in a clean robe, her hair combed and loosely pulled back with a leather cord. They share a cold meal of salted fish and apple slices and settle into a comfortable silence. He catches her yawning before long and rises to gather their pallets and lay them close together on the dirt floor.

"Under the furs, now," he tells her. "We've another long ride come morning." She gratefully settles in, pulling the covers up to her chin. Sitting back down by the fire, he pokes through his bag until he finds his whetstone and oil cloth. He gets busy putting a new edge on the blade of his sword, falling into the familiar chore and not thinking about much of anything. He is tired, but it's a sweeter exhaustion than he has known since they left the Quiet Isle. He thinks her asleep and so is startled when her voice breaks the silence some time later.

"I'm glad we found each other, Sandor" she tells him. "You were a friend to me once; it's good that we should be friends again."

"Is that what we are: friends?"

"I think so," she says softly. "And that is a good way to begin."

He almost asks what she means, but forces the question back. He is not sure either of them is ready for whatever answer she might give. He says instead, "Go to sleep, little bird." It's not long before he hears the now familiar sounds of her slumber. She is unlike her sister in this: the she-wolf growled in her sleep, while Sansa whimpers.

Much later, as he lies on his back beside her, head cradled on his arms and staring up at the thatch roof, she stirs and rolls toward him until she is resting against his side. He realizes he has forgotten to place his sword between them. But as she uncurls an arm and throws it across his chest, Sandor finds that he doesn't much care.

****

**…**


	14. These Scars We Wear

They begin finding their own unique rhythm after that contentious day. Their routine remains the same: endless hours of riding and long nights under the stars or beneath the roofs of smallfolk anxious for any favor the Seven might grant them for sheltering a pair of brown brothers. They have encountered very few fellow travelers and this concerns Sandor, though he's not sure why. He hears scant stories of bandits or gangs of outlaws and begins to think all but a hardy few have gone to ground, not trusting this false spring to last long. He has his own doubts about its length but does not voice them to Sansa. She is just beginning to lift the burden of previous worries and he doesn't wish to lay fresh ones on her shoulders.

Sometimes the tales she tells of her life after he left her in King's Landing and those of her time in the Vale come of their own accord. Sometimes he needs to prod. But she is less guarded either way and so he feels more comfortable laying himself bare to the quiet and careful deliberation of his own confessions, feeling it only fair to share as she does.

They talk more now, not just the exchange of experiences, but the small things that when woven together create the distinctive tapestry of a person's life. He knows that she favors the wildflowers of the godswood at Winterfell over its glass garden roses, and the color blue, and that she likes to dance until she is breathless from it; she knows he loves the sea but cannot swim, that Cersei once hit him hard enough to bloody his nose, and that he ate poisonous berries on a dare as a boy and very nearly died of it.

They have learned each others habits and the languages of their bodies, perfecting the dance of making and breaking camp, sliding and bending and leaning, each around the other, bumping together only when they mean to, and then with a grin. They have even begun to finish each others sentences and communicate with single looks.

On the rare nights spent under a roof, he will take the floor and she the bed, if there is one to be had. But on those nights spent alone, his sword has not reappeared between them on their pallets and they have not spoken of it. He is careful not to seek her out but only to gather her in those times she rolls and nudges against him. Sandor is not entirely sure if she is awake during those moments or if she searches for comfort in her dreams. He does not ask, afraid to break this new and fragile custom by acknowledging it. And though he tries to maintain a certain vigilance even as they sleep, he sometimes wakes first to find them tangled round each other, long arms and legs holding tight. Those mornings he carefully slips out of her sleeping grasp, hungry and hard, and slinks away to ease his ache.

Sandor has been a long time without a woman, and he is more aware of it now than when on the Quiet Isle, surrounded as he was by mostly silent men and their devout prayers. He has been sorely tempted to touch her more than he should, to test his boundaries and what she will allow. But the impulses are swiftly quelled when he thinks of the aftermath of her marriage to the Imp and of what she must have endured at the capricious whims of Petyr Baelish – the two things of which she has not spoken and of which he will not ask.

It is mid-afternoon and they stand on the steep bank of the Blue Fork, crudely made fishing poles in hand, hoping to catch their supper. Their hoods are pulled back so they can feel on their faces the rays of sunlight threading through the tree branches above them. They'd thought to stay at an inn several miles back but Sandor had misliked his sense of the place and they'd left not long after arriving.

"It stinks of lions," he told her as he tied to his saddle a sack of brown bread and cheese they'd bought from the innkeeper before leaving. Sansa, clutching a skin of wine she'd asked for along with the rest, had nodded sharply and mounted her horse without protest.

"She left you there to die?" she asks him now, disbelief coloring her words. They are passing the skin back and forth and Sandor is feeling pleasantly blurry around the edges.

"Aye, and a good thing, that. If she'd done as I asked the old man would've stumbled on a corpse and I'd not be standing here with you."

"Still," Sansa says.

"She had good reason to go. Thought I was wrong not to leave her at the Twins to save your mother and brother."

"That's foolishness! She would've died too. Surely she knew that."

He gives her a sidelong look. "All she knew was what she'd lost. Grief can blind you, girl, you know that. Fear can, too. Don't be so hard on your sister. She bore her own scars."

She takes a long drink, her face screwed up in thought, and hands the skin to him. He swallows another mouthful and then corks it, dropping it down between them. Off her look he says, "Enough of that. If I'm feeling it, then I know you are."

She narrows her eyes at him. "It didn't occur to me before, but you do not drink as you used to."

"I don't do a lot of what I used to."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Most of it. The rest … you learn to live with it. Or without it." She goes quiet for a bit and then softly chuffs. "What?"

"It's funny. You protected me in King's Landing and my sister, out here."

"Did a piss-poor job of it, both times."

"That's not true," she insists, laying her hand on his arm. "You did all could do for us, I know that."

He laughs and pats her hand. "Oh, little bird, sometimes I forget how innocent you are. You shouldn't place such faith in me."

She looks at him intently. "You are sworn to me. Should I not have faith in that? Was I mistaken to take you at your word?"

"Not now. Back then, yes."

He pulls his line from the water and frowns at the empty hook. "Looks to be dried mutton tonight. At least we've bread and cheese to go with," he says, setting the pole down. She leaves hers in the water, not ready to give up, and he knows they could've been eating a hot meal tonight, had they stayed at the inn. But he has her trust now, along with her faith, and it costs nothing to let her keep trying.

He tips his head and gazes through the bows of the tall sentinel pines to the streaks of color spreading across the sky, heralding the coming of day's end. He breathes deep and pulls the scents of water and loam and pine into his lungs. The air is cool but not terribly so, and the wine has warmed him.

"Arya left you, but you left me."

He gives her a sharp look and she holds his eye. He forces himself not to turn away or ignore her blunt proclamation, though it makes his gut twist to remember that night. "It's not that simple, girl. We both knew you weren't coming with me."

"Then why wait in my chamber at all? Why kiss me if you didn't think I'd come?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Why did you kiss me if you meant to leave me anyway?"

It can't be the wine – he hasn't drunk enough. But Sandor's head is suddenly spinning. He gapes at her, like one of the fish they haven't caught. "I never meant to leave you! I wanted to take you with me. Gods, how I wanted that! But I didn't kiss you, bird."

"Of course you did."

"No, I didn't."

"You did," she insists and her cheeks blossom with color as he carefully studies her. "You kissed me and you made me sing a song and then you left me."

"Sansa, the only kiss I gave that night was my dagger to your throat. Have you forgotten that part?"

She ducks her head. "No. I remember that, too."

"As well you should."

"You were very drunk. You've simply forgotten."

"Believe me, girl, if I'd kissed you, I'd know it."

She turns away and grips her pole with both hands and he sees that her knuckles have gone white. She begins to fidget, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. He hasn't taken his eyes off her but he doesn't see her now. Wheels are turning in his head and he thinks what it means that all this time she has remembered a kiss that never happened. And that she did not refuse his company on the Quiet Isle; that she seemed to enjoy it, even expect it. And that she is here with him now, that she has chosen him.

 _Blind bloody fool_ , he thinks.

He says her name and she turns to him and then she is in his arms. One wraps round her waist and the other slides up until he is cupping the back of her head in his hand and he is kissing her. Their lips come together hard and she draws the breath from his mouth as she gasps. He hears her fishing pole drop to the ground with a soft _plop_ as her lips open under his. Sandor is not much skilled at this and wastes a precious moment worrying about his lack. But the thought vanishes when she steps closer, pressing herself against him. He wants to devour her, to consume her and carry her within him, where no one can ever hurt her again. And he wants to bury himself inside her, so deeply that there is no beginning of her or beginning of him, there is only the one they might become. He wants this more than he has ever wanted anything, and with a ferocity that both frightens and astonishes him. And as her arms thread through his and begin to snake round his neck, he gathers every bit of his strength, breaks the kiss, and steps away from her.

"There, bird" he says, wondering if she hears the way his voice breaks. "Now you've been kissed." He spins and starts up the slope of the river bank, his heart pounding like a drum. "Come along. It's time to make camp."

****

**…**


	15. These Scars We Wear

She is a long time in joining him, ducking under the low branches to where they've left their horses and gear. Squatting over one of his packs, Sandor looks up watching as she enters the clearing, fishing poles in one hand and the half-full skin of wine in the other. Their eyes connect for a moment and then slide away, and she gets busy gathering kindling. Sandor settles cross-legged on the ground and unrolls the map, flicking his gaze in her direction every so often. It's disconcerting that most times he does, her eyes are on him as well.

It makes him jittery and uncomfortable, as if he's like to burst out of his skin. He wants more than anything that she should say something, but she doesn't. The longer the silence stretches, the more he questions the impulsiveness of what he's done and her reaction to it.

"Another two days should bring us to where we'll cross the Green Fork," he says, more from a need to end their impasse than anything else. "There's a village not far past, with an inn. If you'd like and it looks to be safe, we can stay there a day or two."

"Then we'll travel the edge of the Vale north to the Neck?" Her voice is pitched high and she sounds more a child than a woman.

"Aye, and hope the hill tribes are well east of us."

"Will it be especially dangerous?"

"Might be. Yes."

They fall back into their awkward silence and Sandor focuses on the map again. But he may as well be trying to read High Valyrian for all the sense he can make of it just now.

"If you're waiting for an apology, you won't get one," he blurts. And with that he does with words what he has always done with steel: he strikes fast and hard, defensively and with little care for the consequences.

They lock eyes at his outburst. Then she glances around and settles on a low stump a few feet away. She wrings her hands before shoving them in her lap to still them.

"I would not ask that of you," she murmurs.

"What is it, then? Appalled you've been kissed by an ugly dog instead of some ser in shiny armor? Florian was a bloody fool but he was more comely than I'll ever be." She opens her mouth to speak but he doesn't give her the chance. He is not certain what it is he feels, he only knows that he mislikes it very much and mistakenly sees her as the cause. "Or maybe it wasn't so bad compared to some. Tell me, girl, did you have to kneel for your lord Imp's kisses?"

She blanches and he feels the instantaneous sting of the cut he's delivered as sharply as if he gave it to himself. It raises bile in his throat and he turns his head and spits, trying to rid himself of the foul taste of his words. He wonders, through the burn of his regret, if she will hate him now. And he wonders if he will ever not find new and vicious ways of wounding her. He ducks his head and shoves the map away, unable to meet her level gaze.

"If you would know, then listen to me and hear my words for true. There is only one question I would ask of you and it is this: why did you stop?"

He is taken aback, lifting his head to stare at her. His mouth works for a long moment before he can manage words. "Bloody hells, Sansa, I swore to defend your honor, not sully it! I shouldn't have kissed you like that."

"Perhaps it was wrong of you. But I'm glad you did."

"You don't know what you're saying, girl."

"You tell me you didn't kiss me the night you left King's Landing, and I must take you at your word. I know you not to be a liar. So much of my time there and in the Eyrie is jumbled and unclear. I was living different lives, you see: the real one inside my head and the one I presented to all others. Sometimes I didn't know for certain what was true and what was not. But there is one thing I clung to, that reminded me I was not Lady Lannister or Alayne Stone, the disgraced noble or the bastard girl.

"It was my memory of you; of that last night and all the others. Of the things you told me. What you did for me. I remembered you and it reminded me who I once was and who I want to be again. And now that we are together, I don't want to be without you. You make mockery of yourself, and without good reason. Say your hurtful things if you must, but I would remind you of the vows you gave and I would hold you to them. And defending my honor, Sandor, is the least of them. I am a woman grown, just shy of six and ten, and for the first time able to make my own choices, and if I desire your kisses, that is my right."

"Take a good look at me," he growls, leaning toward her.

"I do, every day. Many and more times."

"Then don't deny what's right in front of you."

"I see the scars you wear. But that is not all I see."

As suddenly as it came upon him, his need to fight her drains away and he closes his eyes in a slow blink. Although he understands the meaning of her words, he cannot reconcile himself to them: it is too much to hope for and he has been too long without dreams.

Sandor is tired. Tired of traveling. Tired of being constantly on guard; of holding back and weighing most every word and gesture before he'll let her hear it or see it. Tired of waiting for her to grow sick of him when he badly misjudges, and send him away as she should. Tired of trying to fit into skin that no longer reflects what is within. He pulls a hand down his face, feeling the landscape of the flesh beneath, stubbled and grimy on the one side, puckered and pitted on the other.

"I wish I could change this for you, Sansa," he confesses, waving at the ruin of his face.

"I am glad that you cannot. I have grown used to it and hardly notice now. And it was never truly the scars that frightened me, before. It was the hatred in your eyes."

"I never hated you."

"Now you are lying. You hated everything and everyone – yourself, most of all. But you watched over me nonetheless, as best you could. You gave me advice, though I didn't always want to listen. There was goodness in you even then, elsewise you could never have become the man I see before me. You may rant and curse and puff out your chest, but there is gentleness in your eyes when you look at me now, and respect, and no other man's eyes have ever touched me so. No other man's eyes ever will."

She leaves the stump she is sitting on and walks toward him and he watches her with trepidation, too frozen with disbelief to move or speak. She kneels before him and cups his ravaged cheek and he leans into her without thought.

"You are no ser, but you are the one I choose. You are mine, Sandor."

"Yours," he chokes out and pulls her into his lap, setting his forehead on her shoulder and drawing in ragged, hopeful breaths.

They stay as they are for an unmeasured time, though he is on some level aware of the deepening shadows around them and the growing chill in the air. But they are content to simply hold each other, touching. There is no heat in this embrace as there was on the riverbank, only confirmation and comfort. They turn and nudge as they must and he soon grows vexed by her cap and pulls it off so he can have his hands in her hair. She strokes down his arm and winds hers round his back, petting him languidly and murmuring words too low to hear as she nestles her head in the space under his chin. He drops a kiss to the crown of her head as the first nightingales begin to sing high in the trees above them. Their song signals an end for them both and as one they begin to move, Sansa pushing off his lap as he unfolds to rise beside her. With a lingering touch of their hands, they part and finish making camp.

Much later, after their cold meal, they sit before the dying fire, wrapped in furs, she on the stump and he on the ground next to her, leaning against it; his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankle. She is twisting locks of his hair in her fingers and he shivers every time they make contact with the back of his neck.

"Why _did_ you stop?" she suddenly asks.

He glances over his shoulder at her and says gruffly, "You're a woman grown, duly wedded and bedded. You tell me."

She blinks at him strangely and then looks out into the woods. "You would not have stopped with a kiss, had it gone on," she decides - but it sounds more a question than a certainty. He cannot help but chuckle.

"No, girl, I would not have stopped with a kiss."

There is a long silence before she speaks again. When she does there is shy resolve in her tone. "Would that have been such a terrible thing?"

This time he twists and drapes an arm across her knees and she looks down at him, her eyes reflecting the glowing embers of the fire.

"Not terrible, but not right either," he says. "No, when the time comes, little bird, I mean to lay you down on a feather bed piled high with furs. And we'll be warm and clean and sweet smelling. And there will be plenty of candles to light our way."

The look she gives him turns him instantly hungry and boneless. Had he been on his feet, it would surely have dropped him to his knees. His insides gone liquid and hot, he turns away from the cause before it can swallow him up and make of him a liar.

But she doesn't seem to understand and is not content to let it go. "Then you have thought about it … before today?"

"More than I should," he confesses. "Lucky for you, I'm not the sort to let my cock lead the way." He glances back and sees that he's embarrassed her. That might once have made him angry, now it just amuses him and he gives a soft grunt of laughter.

"Have you had many women, Sandor?"

His fingers find a small rock on the ground beside him and he tosses it overhand into the fire. It disturbs the unburnt twigs at the outer edge and sends up a fresh lick of flame. "What kind of bloody question is that, bird?" She does not respond and he knows she won't be happy until she gets an answer. "Enough," he admits. "Whores, mostly. Serving girls. Scullery maids. Never had a high-born woman, if that's what you want to know. I've heard said noble girls taste sweeter. Might be I'll find out for myself, if we can make the Neck without dying."

That seems to stop her chirping and he stares into the fire during the quiet that follows, his eyelids growing heavier as the seconds slide by. He is about to rouse to lay out their pallets when she next speaks.

"So then I shall be your first, as you shall be mine."

His thoughts have drifted to other things by now, so it takes him a short time to grasp what it is she's said. It is at the moment it firmly settles in his ears that he shoots to his feet and rounds on her. "Your - your _first_? Bugger me, Sansa, don't tell me you're still-"

"A maiden?" she finishes for him. "I am."

"But … the Imp!" She stares down into her lap and he fights the urge to pull her to her feet and force her to look at him.

"My lord husband," she answers with caustic derision, "was kind enough not to force his … needs … on me. He had his whores, he said, and they would suffice."

She peers up at him with that and he tries to puzzle out what he sees on her face, alongside his attempt to harness his own racing thoughts. She looks at once chastened and grimly satisfied and he recalls how gutted he'd been by the thought of Tyrion Lannister's blunted, dwarfish hands on her. So tortured that he'd nearly been killed by it, his end delivered by sharp steel, and him with a belly full of wine. He has a moment of sheer relief before another thought occurs to him.

"And Baelish?" he demands of her.

She lets go with a sharp bite of laughter. "My maidenhead was far too precious and necessary to Petyr for him to be as foolish as to take it himself. No, it better served him to sell it to whatever lord offered the highest price for the honor."

"The highest price?" he repeats, horrified at the thought of her auctioned off as some sort of claim to be had, as though she'd no value beyond that. He knows this is the way it has always been and will always be, amongst the nobles, but none of them before were Sansa, and he'd given it no real thought until now.

"Petyr meant to have Winterfell and the North," she goes on. "He already has the Vale and the Riverlands. It was only when his schemes began to fall apart that his affections toward me became ever more … insistent."

Sandor drops onto the stump next to her. He hesitates for a moment before reaching out and capturing one of her hands in his. Their fingers twine, her palm small and damp against his.

"By then he said it didn't matter anymore, that he would marry me himself and we'd find another way to take the North. But he didn't understand - he never did. Those were the things he wanted, not me. All I wanted was to go home and on my terms, no one else's. It was then that I began planning my escape. It wasn't merely the thought of him doing such things to me that decided it, though that was enough. It was the only way I could think to keep Sweetrobin alive."

"Lord Robert?" Sandor shakes his head, not able to make sense of it. "I thought him dead. You said-"

"He was dying when I left. But he has been dying all along. When Petyr told me we were to wed, I knew our marriage would be the end of any reason he had to keep him alive. But if I fled, he would have to if he had any hope of continuing to play his game and keep his hold on the Vale. Harry had refused Petyr's offer of betrothal to me early on, I made certain of that once we met. And it seemed no one else was interested in a Lannister's leavings when I was no longer Alayne Stone. So … I did what I did. Thrice betrothed, once married, and yet still a maiden. How many noble women can say that?"

"Harry?" he asks.

"Harrold Hardyng. A comely boy, but not very smart. He was easily swayed." She glances at him and there is sly cunning in her face he never thought to see. It occurs to him there's much and more he does not know about her yet, and that she is not so much the little bird she used to be.

"I should kiss you more often," he decides. "It loosens your tongue."

She shocks him into laughter when she squeezes his hand and tells him, "Imagine what you might come to know when you rid me of my maidenhead."

She shows him her teeth and he gives her back a smile of his own before he grows serious again. "Sansa, such a thing is not to be given lightly. Had I known… I shouldn't have said the things I said to you earlier."

"Why ever not? It pleases me that you desire me, as I do you. And is it not mine?"

He frowns and shakes his head, not understanding.

"My maidenhead, is it not mine?"

"Don't be bloody daft, girl. Of course it is."

"Then it is mine to give. And I choose that you should have it. Would you refuse me?"

It makes no difference what he might say to her in response. For as their eyes meet and hold, he sees that she already knows the answer. So instead he raises their clasped hands and presses his lips to her knuckles. They both know there is nothing he can deny her.

****

**…**


	16. These Scars We Wear

A fortnight sees them north and east of the Twins and on the southernmost edge of the Neck. It has been an arduous stretch and as fraught with danger as Sandor had feared. They meet fewer and less smallfolk along the way here but he knows this means nothing, for he is aware they have been watched several times - by eyes he cannot see but can feel. He has grown accustomed to the sensation of the hair rising on the back of his neck and wears his sword at his hip and in plain view. Sansa's dagger is tied to the horn of her saddle within easy reach, and he has made certain she knows the most vulnerable parts of a man to strike at close range.

They have found little refuge from the wilderness, only more burnt villages and plundered keeps, small farms of scorched ground. But he has become adept at spotting low caves and sheltered outcrops where they can make camp and at least stay dry. Some days he thinks the rains will never stop. And if Sansa has noticed the growing chill in them, she says nothing.

This part of their journey has not been without its pleasures, though they have been small and hard-won. They both have need of frequent stops when they dare risk it, to seek the other out for long embraces, standing under the shelter of scrubby pines or in the middle of empty buildings with blackened or battered walls - and often stained with rusty brown streaks he recognizes as dried blood. It does not matter where these newly intimate reconnections of theirs take place. All that matters is that it is there for the asking, a constant renewal.

There is no pretense when night falls and they find their pallet, burrowing under the furs and into each others arms. She coos encouragement to him when he kisses her and maps the least dangerous of her curves and valleys with his large hands, but he holds to his vow that he will not take her in these sorts of places. Though Sandor cannot say why, it is important to him that when she gives her gift, it is in a place equal to and deserving of its value.

In the two weeks since their kiss at the river's edge, knowing that she cares for him and wants him has made surprisingly little difference, and yet all the difference in the world. The small things have not changed. He still grows annoyed at her chirping and endless questions and her distaste of anything muddy or rank, or any food they gather that is unfamiliar to her and strange on her tongue. He still bristles when she questions him about why they go this way instead of that; and times they are both tired and he will scold her when he sets her to a chore and catches her heavy, put-upon sighs.

But everything large, the context of everything else, has changed.

He is no longer afraid he'll say or do something and she will turn away from him. He speaks more freely to her and expects the same in return – good or bad. If there is a problem, they battle it out or wait it out. He knows now that he has been granted, along with her presence, the very thing that finally got him to his knees back in the sept on the Quiet Isle. Her affection for him, he has discovered, is another gift: one of time.

So when he watches her now, he does it differently. Not to judge or to find reasons to either smile at her or frown. He no longer tries to guess what she thinks of him or poke at her with words to weigh her response. He studies her now with endless fascination and uncomplicated concern. Now he can get out of his own way and simply watch.

"What is it?"

They are sheltered under an outcropping of rock on the edge of the hills, surrounded on three sides and over their heads by stone. Too shallow to be called a cave, it still has enough room that he has built a fire to roast the two scrawny jack rabbits he managed to trap before the rain began to fall again.

She peers over at him, sucking the meat from a bone; other, smaller ones piling up next to her. "Nothing," she says.

"Is that why your face keeps wrinkling up, girl: nothing? Have you hurt yourself and not told me?"

"No, it's not like that."

She goes back to her supper and he can tell she's had her say. He thinks to leave it but then her face twists again, harder this time. He tosses away a bone and licks his fingers clean.

"Sansa, look at me." He waits till he has her reluctant attention. "What is it, then?"

Shaking her head, she glances aside. "It's nothing, truly. It's just … My moonblood is upon me."

Laughing, he reaches over and runs his hand down her arm. "Is that all?"

She darts her eyes at him, blushing.

"Cramping, are you?" That gets him another quick peek and she gives a sharp nod.

"It's nothing to go red over, bird. I was Cersei's dog for years before she gave me to Joffrey. I know a thing or two about a woman's moonblood."

He levers up from the ground, wiping his hands on his robe and searches around, poking through the loose rocks at his feet. Finding one long enough and flat enough, he scrapes the edge of the fire back with the side of his boot and sets it on the embers to warm.

She watches him with curiosity as he sits with his back against the stone wall and grabs their saddle bags, stacking them one upon the other between his legs until he's made a short cushion. "Come here, bird," he says patting the stack. "Sit with your back to me. Off with the robe first."

She side-eyes him for a moment and then crosses her arms in front of her and pulls it off. She is clothed in simple breeches, high boots, and a boiled leather jerkin strapped over several of his tunics. A woolen scarf is wrapped around her neck and her hair is still bound under her cap. She reminds him of a filly standing there, all long slender legs and filled with innate grace. She steps between his feet and turns, carefully lowering herself to sit in front of him.

He begins undoing the buckles on the jerkin, his cold knuckles brushing the back of her neck on the first, and a tremble runs through her. He reaches the last one at her hips and works it free, leaning up to push it off her shoulders. She shrugs out of it, bending, to set it at her feet. Before she can fully straighten, Sandor presses his thumbs hard into the small of her back, on either side of her spine, fingers spreading to easily encompass the curve of her hips.

She jerks in surprise and then moans low in her throat and folds herself almost double as his thumbs begin drawing deep, widening circles into the muscles there. He grins at her back. "That the place?"

"Gods … yes," she breathes and then yelps as he hits an especially tender spot. He lifts his hands but she tells him not to stop and he digs back in.

She is slumped like a drunken soldier before long, forearms resting on splayed knees, her head hanging low between them. But no soldier boy ever wore curves like hers. He is tempted to stop long enough to shove his hands beneath her layers of tunics and chides himself for his want of her bare skin under his. He can feel when she gives up the last of her resistance and relaxes fully against his hands, swaying slightly with his movements.

"Did you do this for Cersei?" she mumbles, her question almost lost as she asks it to the ground.

He shouts a laugh. "Little chance of that, bird! Remember the bloody nose I told you about? She gave me that for grabbing her arm when she stumbled going up a stair. She was in a foul mood that day and told me a dog's got no business laying paws on a lion. No, I watched her maid do this for her."

"You are quite good at it."

"The first one's free. Might be I'll want something in return next time. Not a bloody punch to the nose either."

"I am no lion, ser," she retorts and he can hear the smile in her words. "Wolves and dogs are more alike than not, I think. Your nose is safe with me."

"Good thing, that. Wouldn't want to ruin this pretty face of mine."

She giggles and then gets quiet again. He works at her back until his hands begin to ache and he flexes them and pats her between the shoulder blades. "Up," he says as he stands. "Fetch me a tunic from my bag. Don't matter if it's clean."

He squats by the fire and takes what she's dug out. Wrapping it round his hand, he grabs the flat rock from the embers and bounces it in his palm to judge its readiness. "That'll do," he decides, pivoting and dropping off his heels, scooting back until he's slumped against the wall. "Grab the furs and come back here," he tells her. Unwrapping the cloth from his hand, he loops it round the rock, padding it to protect her from the worst of the heat it's leeched from the embers. Sansa settles between his outspread legs and he pulls her back against his chest after draping one of the furs over his shoulders and around them.

"If I had a helm we could heat some water and use a skin instead. This will have to do." Sandor picks up the bundled rock and lays it low on her belly. "Put it where it feels best, girl, the heat will do the work." He sits up, bending them both over as he snatches another fur to cover them in front. He tugs off her cap next, and combs through her hair with splayed fingers. They are soon cocooned, warm and relaxed in their small nest of stone.

"That helping?" he asks after a few minutes.

"Yes, very much so. Thank you."

He wraps his arms round her and covers her hands with his. Her head tips back against his shoulder and she peers up at him.

"How did you know to do this?"

"I've lived twice as long as you, girl. I've learned a few things. Might not be fancy, but it does the job."

"It wasn't right, what Cersei did," she says a short time later. "She should not have hit you like that."

He has grown used to the way her mind works and how she'll hold close something he's told her and think on it, then bring it up again as if they hadn't already moved on to something else. She is a constant delight to him and he squeezes her tightly for a moment.

"Lions, dogs, wolves. They're none of them so different. A pack can only have one leader. She was making bloody sure I knew it wasn't me."

"Not all wild things are like that."

"Most," he argues.

"Not birds. They don't care about things like that. They just want to be free to fly."

He turns his head and nuzzles into her hair, struck by the sadness he hears in her words.

"You may have the right of it, there" he says. "But there's more wolf than bird in you, Sansa, don't forget that."

"Maybe that's why she hated me."

"Who, Cersei?"

"Yes. She pretended to love me, but she didn't. If she loved me she wouldn't have let Joffrey do what he did to me - or to my father. I wanted to be like her once. How could I have been so blind?"

"People see what they want to see. The first time you set eyes on someone, you make up your mind who they are, 'specially if they fit the part. Works the other way, too. Get looked at a certain way enough times and soon you wake up one day and that's who you've become, like it or no."

"Is that what happened to you after Gregor burned your face?"

"Aye, some of it. The rest I took on myself."

"But what you look like, that's not all you are. Not anymore."

"No, and you're no empty-headed bird either."

"You used to think I was."

"Still do, sometimes." His bark of laughter becomes a grunt of pain as she jams a well-placed elbow in his ribs. That makes him laugh even more. He will give her that one. They shift and get comfortable again.

"How much further do we have to go, Sandor?"

"A fortnight should see us well through the Neck. We'll have to stay close to the Kingsroad, else the bogs will get us. That'll make for a quicker trip."

"And then?"

"Then we have to make it past Moat Cailin."

"It's still so far to Winterfell from there."

"Not so far as we've already come."

"Will we make it before the weather turns?"

Assurances automatically spring to his lips but he holds them tight and swallows them down instead. He can't find it in him to lie to her. "I don't know, bird. I mean to get us there, but I don't know for certain."

She grows quiet and soon lifts the fur to lay the bundled rock next to them before covering up again and turning in his arms to push closer. She tucks her legs close to her chest and he enfolds as much of her as he can wrap his arms round.

"It's all right," she decides after a while, her voice gone slow and thick with sleep. "If we must needs, we will find a village where we can stay and be safe. Or mayhaps even a cottage or a farmhouse along the way that's not been too badly damaged. We'll fix it up and make it our own and we'll stay there. We can do that, don't you think?"

He knows it more likely they will die out here, either buried in the snows that are sure to come or killed by men carrying banners or none at all, but armed with steel just the same. They have been far luckier than they should be and Sandor knows that luck will eventually run out, as surely as he knows he will die protecting her from whatever may come. He finds he doesn't have the heart to share his certainties this time though, and so he sighs and pulls her closer and tells her, "Whatever you want, bird, I'll make sure you have it. Whatever you want."

Later he dreams of snows and of howling winds, of bitter cold that cuts right through him, sharp as a blade. And when he wakes shivering at first light, he blinks with disbelief and dread at the blinding white of the snow that has fallen as they've slept, blanketing their rocky slope and the fields beyond. Sandor finds himself mouthing curses and prayers in equal measure as he shakes the girl awake.

Winter has returned to Westeros.

****

**...**


	17. These Scars We Wear

"You should not be so concerned," she said. "I have seen summer snows at Winterfell deeper than this. It will not stay."

Though skeptical at first, Sandor begins to believe her right. The storm ends well before noon and they make good progress. The next day sees the snows melting and several more leagues traveled. The morning of the third day it begins snowing again, and this time does not stop until well past evenfall. On the fourth day, deep in the Neck, it begins to sleet, the ground becoming icy, and he insists they dismount and walk. He will not risk either of them being thrown if a horse should lose its legs.

They have chosen to travel the Kingsroad itself rather than to either side, hidden within the tree line; Sandor having weighed the risk of encountering outlaws and finding it less than that of being sucked into a bog or drowning in deadly pool of quicksand. Even on the Kingsroad he takes no chances, poking at the snowy ground before them with a long spear he sat and carved one night. The snows come and then they go, in short and furious bursts, leaving only an inch or two at a time. But those settle atop what is already there and make for slow going and aching, tired legs at day's end.

The morning of the sixth day they wake under the crude lean-to he constructed the night before, poor shelter by any measure. With the snow has come the cold. And while is not yet deadly enough to kill them as they sleep, it keeps that sleep from being restful. They stumble around drowsily, rubbing their hands and stomping their feet to try to get the blood moving as they break camp. The packs he throws behind Stranger's saddle are a lighter load than they have been before, as they are both wearing every scrap of clothing they have in an attempt to keep warm. They no longer wear their robes as they were meant to be: Sandor has hacked off the bottoms so they hang just below the knee, making it easier to high-step through the snow. Sansa uses the extra cloth to create more scarves, leg wraps, and makeshift mittens to sleep in.

He looks over and she is stroking her hand down Stranger's cheek. The beast pulls back his lips and nuzzles peaceably at her open palm. She glances at Sandor, stricken, and he sees fresh tears gathering in her red-rimmed, puffy eyes.

Just yesterday her palfrey had slipped on an icy patch of ground and gone down hard – as he had feared - shattering a front leg, screaming in pain. Grim-faced, he had put his dagger to the horse's throat as Sansa stood behind him, choking back tears. She did not protest when he refused to leave all the fresh meat for the wild animals and removed a haunch of flesh big enough to see them through the next few days. But last night she refused the charred pieces he tried to hand her and went hungry instead.

Sandor hurt for her because of her anguish and his inability to make it right. His helplessness building to a quiet fury, he had left her to vent it on a far off tree, hacking away at it with his axe before whipping it aside and beating his fists bloody on the shattered bark. Returning, he ignored her sad, inquisitive eyes and wordlessly allowed her to clean and wrap his hands as he stared off into the distance. He does not yet know how to comfort her with words, having heard so few of them himself, and feels his lack ever more keenly when she is like this, fraught with grief.

"Are you ready, then?" he asks her now. She gives a quick nod and he leads them back to the Kingsroad.

They have been walking most of the morning in silence, lost in private thoughts, when he glimpses something from the corner of his eye. Turning to look he throws his left arm straight out to the side, halting horse and girl alike.

"Look," he says quietly. She follows his glance, gasping when she sees what's stopped him. On their right, perhaps twenty yards ahead of them, a small pack of wolves has emerged from the swampy woods and are leisurely making their way toward the Kingsroad. Two or three of the younger ones are chasing each other through the snow, yelping in high, short barks and playing at hunt and attack. Stranger lifts his huge head, softly snorting and perhaps already catching their scent, and Sandor automatically takes the reins from Sansa's hand. He glances aside and sees that she is utterly captivated. Her mouth is open in an O and she is staring wide-eyed at the wolves.

"They're beautiful," she whispers.

"Aye," he rasps. "I'd probably appreciate them more if we weren't traveling with five pounds of raw horseflesh. Bloody good thing we're upwind of them."

"What do we do?"

"Nothing. Stand our ground. Try not to draw their attention."

At that moment the largest of the pack, a huge thing of thick gray and black fur, lifts his snout from the snow and spots them. Eyes dark and shiny as glass look him over before shifting to Sansa.

"Fuck me," he mutters. "We're seen, girl. Whatever you do, don't run."

Before he can even think to stop her, she ducks under the reins, pushing back the hood of her robe and pulling off her cap. Titian waves spill down her shoulders and back as she walks away from him.

"What are you doing?" he hisses, reaching for her as the wolf curls his lips, baring his deadly fangs.

"It's all right," she says, pulling her arm from Sandor's grasp and taking another few steps.

"Sansa!" He looks back at the wolf and it only has eyes for the girl. The rest of the pack has been drawn to attention by now, and as a group they study her with a wary, curious gaze. He shifts his eyes between her back and the wolves ahead of them for an unmeasured time, his hand tight on the grip of his sword and wishing he could see her face and what is happening there. Just as Sandor takes a cautious step toward her the big wolf tips his head and lets out a long, mournful howl. It ends as suddenly as it has begun and as one the pack breaks into a run, crossing the road in front of them and disappearing into the tree line. Sansa turns to watch them go.

"What was that?" Shivers run up his spine like ghostly fingers. "What just happened?"

She circles to face him, blinking round owl eyes. Her mouth works a smile but it cannot quite hold. "I don't know." She is pale as milk except for the two spots of color high on her cheekbones and the indigo of her eyes. Her hair is a bright corona around her face and she absently pushes a thick lock of it away from her mouth. "I don't know," she repeats with wonder, adding, "But I think we are truly in the North now."

He nods slowly, as if what she's said explains everything. "That we are, little bird. Or maybe it should be wolf queen instead."

She chirps a quiet laugh and answers distractedly, "If it please you. We should keep moving, there's a town not far from here. And people. We'll have a place to stay."

"How do you know that?"

"I remember. We must have passed it on the way to King's Landing when I left home with Father and Arya." She gives him a dazzling smile. "You were there too, though I did not know you then." Taking Stranger's reins from his numb fingers, she leads the horse away, leaving him standing there in a daze. She is yards gone before she notices she has left him behind and stops to look back. "Are you coming?"

Sandor catches up to her and studies her as they walk. "Sansa, you can't know for certain where we are. I'm not even sure myself, except that we're in the bloody Neck. How do you know?"

"I told you: I remember."

He thinks to mention that she has also remembered things that didn't happened, but decides against it. It makes no matter, they have to walk anyway. And if they come upon a town and can sleep under a roof tonight, more the better.

"Your direwolf," he asks after a minute, "could you do that with her?"

"Do what?"

His hand lifts to circle the air. "Whatever it was you just did."

"I don't know. I do not think so."

She is still preoccupied, head turning this way and then that as she studies the tree lines on both sides of the road. But it is not with any sort of anxiousness or fear. It is more a resigned impatience he's sensing in her than anything else. What she is waiting for or looking for he cannot say. He glances over to find her attention suddenly focused on him.

"You do not like it here, do you?" she asks.

Sandor frowns at her. "Here in the Neck? No, I don't."

"Why?"

"Too bloody green," he says. "An unnatural shade, at that. And the moss that hangs from the tree limbs and covers the trunks all the way round. It looks queer with the snow. The swamps. The reeds sticking up from the ground like spears. And the smell: don't much care for that either. Like bad eggs. I've never seen a lizard-lion; don't bloody want to. Crannogmen," he finishes.

"Lord Howland Reed was one of my father's dearest friends. Father had deep respect for him and always told us the Crannogmen were special, that the blood of the Children ran in their veins."

"I don't know much about that."

"You did not study the Old Gods?"

"I've just spent two years in a septry, girl, what do you think?"

"No, before. You said you had a maester when you were a boy."

"When did I tell you that?" He does not remember.

"The first night of my father's tourney, when you walked me back and told me what Gregor had done to you."

"You remember that?" He laughs. "I was drunk."

"Indeed." And then without a word or a glance she brushes her fingers against his and they are holding hands. "I kept my promise, I never told anyone."

"Afraid I'd kill you?"

She looks over and holds his eye. "Yes, I was, at first. But that is not why."

He waits for more but she offers nothing else. So he circles back to where they began. "We did have a maester. I learned my letters and how to read; maths and some history. But I was very young, and after I burned I didn't have much use for those kinds of lessons. Especially when it came to the bloody gods, old or new. A master-at-arms was all I needed and we had one of those too - for Gregor, at the beginning. And then me, later."

"I'll tell you about them sometime, the Children. I think you would like the Old Gods as well."

"But would they like me? The Seven seem to tolerate my presence; maybe I should call that good enough."

"The old ones are very … peaceful. They do not ask for so much, but they offer everything. You need only seek them out and become very quiet inside and they will talk to you. And listen to you."

"What do they tell you, little bird?"

He never gets an answer because that very moment is when she finds what she's been looking for. She stops dead and points to the left. "There!" she exclaims and takes off running. He has no choice but to follow her, stopping long enough to wheel back around and glare at Stranger.

"Stay!" he orders.

And now he sees what she is running toward, the bright spot of red some ten feet into the tree line. He catches up to her before she races headlong into the swampy woods, grabbing her arm and spinning her round to a stop. "I see it, girl. Now slow down before you find yourself waist deep in a bloody bog!"

She lets him keep hold of her and follows beside him as he pokes at the ground in front of them, cautiously picking their way closer. The weirwood is barely more than a sapling and not much taller than him, poking out of the ground amidst the larger moss-covered trees surrounding it. Its bark is a smooth and unblemished white and thick, crooked limbs sprout inelegantly from its trunk, dressed in five-pointed leaves the color of blood.

Sansa drops to her knees in front of it and runs a hand down the bark. Then she sticks her arm back and waggles her fingers at him. Sandor takes them and lets her tug him down until he's sitting on his heels next to her.

"Give me your dagger."

He eyes her suspiciously. "What for?"

"Don't be silly," she says. "The gods need eyes to see and mouths to speak."

"Of course," he mutters, unsheathing his dagger and handing it to her hilt first. She plunges the point deep into the weirwood and gouges out two wide slashes for eyes and then another longer one below, for a mouth. She hands him back the blade and brushes away the loose shavings from the tree trunk.

"Now what?" he asks.

"Now you stop talking," she gently chides, "and start praying. Close your eyes and be still."

He twists off his heels and onto his knees and takes the hand she offers. Glancing at her to check, he sees her eyes have shut and he follows suit. It's not so different from kneeling in a sept, he thinks, except the dirt floor was harder there and there was no cold moisture seeping up to wet the knees of his breeches. But her hand is warm in his and she is so very peaceful beside him that he cannot help but relax. He tips his head back and a random spear of sunlight strikes his face and glows red behind his closed eyelids. He wonders what it is he should be doing now besides this. He isn't sure what one prays for when beseeching the old gods. And then he supposes the prayers would be similar to those said to the Seven.

 _Pray for what it is you need most_ , Elder Brother's litany repeats in his head. _Pray for those things you want, and for what will help you become the kind of man the gods intended you to be._ So he tries to do that, but cannot hold to it. Prayers for himself will not come, forced away by his awareness of Sansa beside him, and of the reality of her small hand grasping his so trustingly.

_What I need most is for her to be safe and whole. What I pray is that she has what she wants, no matter what that is. Grant me the strength and the wisdom to see us through. Grant her the things she wants. That's all that matters. And let me always be worthy of her._

His eyes come open when she squeezes his hand and he finds her gazing at him, a secret smile on her face. She looks toward the weirwood and he does the same, his breath locking in his throat. The eyes she has carved in the trunk are weeping a thick sap the same shade as the leaves it bears, red as blood.

She lets go of his hand and grips his shoulder, using him as leverage to push to her feet. He stands up beside her, unable to take his eyes off the weirwood, with its crimson tears. Several moments pass after she turns back toward the road before he can finally pull himself away from the sight and join her.

They make their way slowly back to where Stranger waits, nuzzling at a patch of grass poking up through the melting snow. Neither of them speak as they take the road again. He doesn't know the reason for her silence, he only knows that nothing he is thinking now would make sense coming out of his mouth, and so he stays quiet.

They have been walking for perhaps two more hours when he sees several dark wisps of smoke rising above the tree line and begins to smell the tang of firewood and roasting meat, the unique scent of people and lives being lived and warmth in abundance that all adds up to a community.

"The town," Sansa announces unnecessarily. And although he knows he should be feeling a sense of apprehension, as he has every time they have approached peopled villages or groups of fellow travelers, this time there is nothing but anticipation.

They come round a bend in the road and find themselves looking down a narrow valley, a dip in the land that holds the place she remembers but he cannot. He sees homes and shops, stables, markets, and a large two story inn. There are people on the Kingsroad as it weaves through the center of the town, walking or on horseback, and groups of children playing in the snow. The whole of the town is surrounded by marshes, as if the gods created this place somewhere else and then lifted it in their giant hands and set it down here. And he is not much surprised to find that it feels to him like a sanctuary.

…


	18. These Scars We Wear

They spend long minutes staring down at what lies before them. It is like no place he ever expected to encounter, save for villages around some of the larger castles and keeps. He scans rooftops and walls and enclosures with a critical eye, searching for evidence of any sort of damage from the war fought north and south of here and, finding none, looks for proof of recent repairs having been made. Of that, there is also no evidence. The village is pristine, untouched.

He senses her eyes on him and turns to meet a face filled with expectancy.

"An inn," she says, her eyes bright.

"Stables," he replies. "We'll get you another horse, Sansa, as good as the last one, I promise."

"Fresh food to eat. Soft-cooked eggs to break our fast. Oh, and honey for our bread. I can taste it already!"

"New breeches and tunics. Boots that fit you right."

"A real bed to sleep in. With clean furs and pillows for our heads."

He grins widely, unable to contain his delight at hers and rasps, "A bath, little bird. Hot as you want it and you can soak in it till you're more prune than not."

"A hair brush for the one I lost past the Twins." She gasps as her hands fly to her unbound hair. "My cap! I've left it back on the road."

"It don't matter, girl. Not anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"We're in the North. We've left brown brothers and the Seven behind us. These robes," he says, tugging at the rough-spun tattered cloth he wears, "will curry us no special favor here. May as well leave them behind too."

For the first time she looks worried. "Who are we to be, then? The Starks may have enemies, even here. No one can know who I am, not yet – mayhaps not for a very long time. And you … your face."

"The price of war. I can't be the only man in all of Westeros kissed by fire."

"Perhaps not," she responds. Then she looks him over. "But there are no other men who quite appear as you do. Once seen, you are not easy to forget." She hesitates and he watches as her concern gives way to something darker.

"What is it?"

Her eyes dart to the ground between them. "Saltpans."

"You know the truth of that."

"Yes, but others do not. And if anyone were to even suspect-"

"The mad dog of Saltpans was not the Hound. And even if he were, what does it matter? The Hound is dead. And Sansa Stark is wanted for a kingslayer. Quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Then … who are you, now? Who am I?"

"Who do you want to be?" He laughs and casually relates, "There were those in the Riverlands thought your sister my whelp."

"That is because you both have the look of the North." Her brow creases as her eyes flick over his face. "I did not truly see it before now. The blood of the First Men is strong in you, I think, as it is in the Starks. Your hair, your eyes, even the shape of your face. "

He snorts. "I'm not going to pretend to be your bloody kin, if that's what you're thinking."

"No, of course not, that would be absurd."

He waits, arms folded loosely across his chest, watching an idea quickening in her. When she finally looks up there is a capricious smile settling on her face.

"You are a well-to-do merchant from the Riverlands and living under the banner of House Mallister _ **.**_ Do you remember all your houses?"

Sandor gives her a sour, dismissive look. "Aye, girl, well enough."

"You've come north to begin anew, away from the ravages of the war." He waits for it, and it is not long in coming. "And we are … together," she finishes.

Brow furrowing, he leans into her, bringing them practically nose to nose. "Do you mean to have me name you _wife_?" he growls.

She pushes up on tip-toe and brushes her nose across his. "No, good ser, I mean you to name me your paramour."

Sandor throws back his head, laughing. "Oh, I like a brazen woman! But if you're to be my bed warmer, best you look the bloody part, rather than some comely boy. I'll wager you stuffed at least one gown in your bag. Go on," he says, glancing over his shoulder, "just inside the tree line. Get changed. And be quick about it, I want for hot food in my belly."

While she is gone he tugs off his own layers, twisting the robes into a bundle he shoves in a pack and shaking out a brown woolen cloak. Strapping his sword belt back around his hips, he drapes the cloak over his shoulder and fastens it with an old and tarnished silver brooch.

By then he hears her coming up behind him and tries not to gawk when she steps in front of him. He has become so used to seeing her in tunics, breeches and robes that it startles him anew how truly delicate she is, how much a woman. She has tamed her auburn waves in a loose braid and her simple gown is of dove-gray wool, embroidered at neckline and sleeves with twisting leaves and vines stitched in fine silver thread. It hangs loosely on her shoulders and he sees why as she circles round. He is presented with the narrow V of her back, covered only by a sheer chemise and framed by the unlaced dress. The skin above the silken undergarment is of softest ivory and dusted with pale freckles.

"If you would be so kind as to tighten the lacings," she says.

He grunts and gathers them in his hands, pulling them taut and tying them at the top before he bends and places his lips on the back of her neck. "So I'm your handmaiden too, am I?" he murmurs against her. Goosebumps rise where his breath touches and Sandor smiles.

"The dress _was_ your suggestion," she reminds him, turning back. The gown is not at all revealing but now fits snugly round her torso, hugging the ample curves there.

"How do I look?" she asks, self-consciously patting at her hair and skimming her hands down her ribs.

"Have you a cloak packed?" His voice sounds rough in his ears and she nods. "Put that on as well. It'll keep you warm and covered proper, besides."

Eyes sparkling with mirth, she does as she's bid and they make their way to a stable next to the inn, exchanging coin for a clean and roomy stall for Stranger, along with ample warning of the horse's temperament, all given to a boy who cannot seem to meet Sandor's eye, not even for an instant. He feels a flash of anger and quells the urge to grab the skinny lad by the front of his tunic and lift him off his feet, make him take a good look. He has grown used to being seen by comfortable, accepting eyes and does not like the idea of once again being looked at as some sort of freak or monster. But there is nothing to be done for it, and even less to gain by any act of aggression.

Sansa links her arm loosely with his as they leave the stable and he pats her hand in reassurance. He opens the door of the inn and they find themselves in the common room, surrounded by the din of raised voices and raucous laughter and the aromas of sour red wine and roasting fowl. He blinks in the dimness and hears the voices fading as he scans the room, studying the faces looking up at them from the half-filled trestle tables. Several tense moments pass before a man against the far wall turns away and calls out for more ale and the occupants slowly go back to what they were doing.

Sandor guides them to an empty table just inside the room and slides onto a bench there, his back against the sidewall and facing the door as Sansa settles down across from him. "Let me do the talking," he tells her as a small and portly balding man approaches, wiping his hands on the apron wrapped low under his belly. "Meat," Sandor tells him. "Lots of it. Vegetables, if you have them. Bread and honey. And wine too."

"Right away, m'lord," the man says, scurrying away.

Sansa folds her arms on the table and leans toward him. "Is it always like that when you first come into a room?"

"Look at me, girl, what do you think? It's no different when it's them I've known most my life."

"I don't know how you do it," she murmurs. "All those eyes on you like that."

"Don't really have a choice, now, do I? Most, they take their bloody look and get their fill, then go back to their business."

"It's not right," she protests.

"It's got nothing to do with right or wrong, bird, it just is. Can't stop a man from looking, unless you mean to snatch his eyes from his head. I've done that a time or two."

Whatever she starts to say is interrupted by the innkeep as he lays a small loaf of brown bread on the table between them and then two deep bowls filled with a thick stew of duck, simmered with onions and the odd piece of carrot and neep. He returns with a honey jar, a flagon of wine, and two cups.

"Will you be wanting a room for the night, m'lord?"

"Depends," Sandor growls and looks him over. "Are they clean?"

"Oh, yes, m'lord! The wife, she sweeps 'em out every day, keeps 'em nice and tidy. No vermin neither, I make sure of that. And clean sheets with every guest."

"Beds?"

"Nice and thick, filled with fresh straw every third turn of the moon; I do it myself."

"None with feathers?" Sansa chirps. Sandor gives her a hard look but she is gazing expectantly up at the innkeep. He smiles at her, showing her the few teeth still in his head.

"Well, since m'lady asks, we do have one room that has a feather bed. It's two rooms, for truth: a bed chamber with its own privy and a solar, besides. Real nice, it is. We keep it for the nobles that pass through from time to time; mostly Lord Howland, these days."

"Of House Reed?" Sansa asks brightly and Sandor scarcely keeps from kicking her under the table.

"The very same!" the inkeep responds. "Do you know him, m'lady? A right good man, that one."

"We've heard tell of him," Sandor rasps before the girl can say more. "We'll have that room, the one with the solar." He fingers open the coin pouch at his waist and slides a dragon across the table. "That should get us more than a single night, I'll wager."

The innkeep's eyes go wide and he looks around before snatching up the coin. It disappears into his apron. "Yes, m'lord, many nights and more! Thank you, m'lord."

"We'll need baths brought up: first for my lady, once she's through here. And someone to attend her."

"My wife," the man says, turning to Sansa. "I'll send my wife. We lost our daughter to a fever not long back. Just about your age, she was. Would do the wife good to have someone to fuss over."

Sandor glances across the table, waiting for Sansa's nod of assent. It comes straight-away. "The water had best be hot too," he warns, "not piss-warm."

"I'll see to it right away. The room's at the top of the stairs, down the end of the hallway, last door on your left. I'll check it my own self, see that it's right for you."

"Candles," Sandor adds as the innkeep turns away. "Plenty of candles."

"Aye, m'lord."

He watches the man scurry away and looks over to find Sansa's eyes on him as she spoons stew into her mouth. "I thought I told you to stay quiet."

She chews her food and dabs at the corner of her lips with a fingertip. "Can't stop a woman from talking," she says, "unless you mean to snatch her tongue from her mouth."

"Don't twist my words and feed them back at me, girl. This is no jape. We don't know that we're safe here."

"Do you think we are?" She uncorks the flagon and pours them wine as Sandor tucks into his stew. It is savory and fragrant and the best thing he's eaten since they left the Quiet Isle. Not bothering with manners, he answers her around a cheekful of bread.

"I'll be buggered if I know why, but yes. I think so."

"Then stop being so gruff with me and enjoy your meal. I am not a child, Sandor, I will do nothing to endanger us."

He grunts and takes a drink of wine, swirling it around in his mouth before he swallows it. "You go get your bath when you've had your fill. I'll be down here while you're soaking." Off her look he says, "That dragon of yours bought us more than a room. We've been on the road for well over a month, girl, I needs find whatever news I can about what's going on up here. We have to know what we'll be riding into."

She nods and tears off a piece of bread, soaking it in the stew before popping it in her mouth. She drains her cup in three long swallows and goes to fill it.

"Drink a second one like that and you'll be bloody good as gone just as soon as you hit the bath."

Her eyes sparkle and she smiles at him and he is struck by how content he is right now, in this moment. With his belly full of stew, a cup of wine close to hand, a bath of his own to look forward to and a feather bed for later - and the woman across from him to warm it. Everything he has asked for, everything they have been waiting for, and wanting.

He empties his bowl and leans back, watching her as she eats, as she twists to look over her shoulder and all around the common room, eavesdropping on snatches of conversation. He drinks in the look of her, her delicate features and her grace, her height and her softly rounded curves. His hands itch to touch her in ways he has not touched her before, and he feels a familiar heat flaring up and swelling in his groin. Sensing his eyes on her, she turns back and gifts him with another smile. He wishes more than anything to lean up and pull her across the table and into his arms; to kiss her here and now, surrounded by these strangers. But he does not.

Extending his arms over his head and straightening his legs under the table, he locks his knees, indulging in a stretch deep enough that his muscles begin to tremble. Lacing his hands behind his head, he slumps back and gazes at her, eyes grown heavy with desire. He snickers as her features shift, and soon they are mirroring what she sees as she looks back at him. She flushes pink and the tip of her tongue sweeps across her upper lip.

"I mean to have you tonight, little bird," he rasps low, sitting up and leaning toward her. Sansa follows suit, drawn by the thread being pulled tightly between them. "Best you finish your food and make your way upstairs, else I might take you right here."

His hoarse laughter fills the room as she pushes back from the table and quickly walks toward the staircase - head up, back straight, proud as a queen.

****

**…**


	19. These Scars We Wear

He gains the top of the staircase just as a parade of children pass him heading down, all with empty buckets in hand. He gives each pup the eye and they stare up at him in turn, their faces naked with surprise, the last and smallest a girl no more than six. She gapes at him and then stops three steps down the stair and looks over her shoulder, offering a timid smile. It sets him aback and, shaking his head in bemusement, he walks to the open door at the end of the hall. The frame is built lower than he's used to and he has to duck his head to step through.

He is in a solar. It is not a large room and has none of the fancy dressings of those in King's Landing, but it more than meets his approval. A fire is crackling in a welcome stone hearth and candles burn all across its mantle, adding fresh molten wax to the dried rivulets that drape its edge like pale, gnarled vines. More burn on tables and cabinets set along the wall. Two low overstuffed chairs with frames of heavy oak flank the fireplace. Dark curtains hang at the leaded glass windows, open just enough to allow the rays of the setting sun to shine through, and dust motes dance wildly in the beams of light that cut across the wide plank floor. Turning, he sees flagons of water and wine placed next to a covered tray on one of the tables and steps to it to lift the lid. Cold roasted duck, a round of bread, a wheel of cheese, and three small yellow apples have all been laid there. He hears Sansa and looks toward the inner doorway just as she follows a tiny wisp of a woman out of the bed chamber beyond.

"You have been such a help," Sansa is saying to her. "I thank you."

"It's my pleasure, sweetling. If you should need-"

The innkeep's wife spots him and her mouth falls open. "Oh," she says after a small silence. And then, "Well, you're a right big one, aren't you?" as she looks him up and down. "We've just now filled your bath, m'lord; it's nice and hot. If there's anything else you need … "

She trails off and goes to leave but then pauses as she reaches his side, and tugs at his arm for attention. She tilts her face up and gives him a sidelong look. "Your lady, she's a sweet girl, that one is. You take real good care of her, you hear? She's special."

Sandor draws back and peers down at her. Unflinching mossy green eyes stare back at him and he finds himself murmuring, "Aye, I will."

It seems that's what she wants to hear, because she pats his arm and slips out the door, closing it behind her. Sandor follows and throws the bolt, turning back to Sansa.

She is in different clothing than before, obviously not her own. She is wearing a dressing gown of deepest green, tied at the waist and unadorned. Her feet are bare and several inches of her legs show beneath the hem. Face scrubbed clean and damp hair draping in thick ringlets over her shoulders, she smells faintly of lavender.

Sandor settles into one of the chairs and waves at the table bearing the food and drink. "Your doing?"

Shyly she explains, "I may have said something about how long we have been on the road and how far we have come. Perhaps I mentioned we might be too weary to venture below for this evening's meal."

"Perhaps? You're such a proper little bird, aren't you?" he teases, stroking the unruly beard on one side of his face. "And the gown?"

"Their daughter's." Sansa glances down at her legs. "She was tall for a Crannog, but still… The innkeep's wife has offered to wash and mend our clothing. I gave her what was in our bags, and you need only leave what you have on outside the door and she will collect it later."

"What am I to wear, then?" He gestures at her. "Breeches high enough they'll fit me like smallclothes? Or am I to go without?"

He cannot dismiss the tension humming between them - unabated since their parting in the common room, despite the few hours that have passed - nor does he want to. It is much more pleasant to begin exploring it anew. He can feel the anticipation in her and an anxiousness that comes not from fear, but from taking her first steps onto untested ground. And though he is far from being able to claim any sort of innocence, Sandor cannot deny he shares a portion of her uncertainties. He knows what she has offered him and what it means, and he wants all to be right for her, and good as it can be.

She stammers as she tells him, "I … I set aside a pair for you, the cleanest you had, and … and a tunic."

"That was thoughtful, but I don't reckon I'll need them for awhile. And you …" He skims his eyes slowly up her length until they come to a stop on hers. "Lift the hem of your gown, girl."

Her mouth works silently for a few moments and he thinks she means to protest but then, blushing, she gathers the cloth in her fists and starts to draw it up. "That's far enough," he says and she stops and waits. "Just as I thought: you've knobby knees. Felt them pressed in my back often enough. What is it? Did you think I meant to have you out of your clothes already? No, I'll be doing that myself when the time comes, but not till I've rid myself of this stink. Help me with my boots, girl, and point me to the bath."

The inner chamber is much the size of the solar, filled with candlelight as well, and the bed takes up most of the room. He looks it over as he moves to the folding screen in one corner, and can tell already that his feet will hang off the end. But it is wide and dressed in thick furs, piled high with pillows and bolsters. He steps behind the screen where the tub is and sees another door he assumes opens to the privy. A low table sits next to the bath, laden with scrub brush and sponges, soaps and oils. He spies a razor and scissors on the edge as he uncorks one of the half-empty bottles, sniffs, and recognizes the scent as what Sansa has bathed in.

Unbuckling the straps at his sides, he manages to shed the studded jerkin and is quickly out of his mail and all the rest and slipping into the steaming bath. The metal tub is deep but not nearly long enough to stretch his legs, leaving his knees and toes poking up from the water. He takes a deep breath, holding it, and slides down until he is folded almost in half and fully submerged, making sure he's all the way wet before resurfacing. He skims his hair back from his face and slumps into the curve of the tub, sighing with pleasure as the hot water soaks away the dirt and loosens sore muscles.

He can hear the girl humming quietly to herself in the other room. His eyes slip shut for a few minutes, and he is content to be doing nothing more than this. When he opens them again he sees a thin layer of scum already collecting on the water's surface and reaches for brush and soap. He gets busy scrubbing himself head to toe.

"Sansa," he calls out a few minutes later, "come here, girl." Before long she is poking her head around the edge of the screen, eyes politely averted – a courtesy he finds amusing, considering the circumstances. "Have you ever shaved a man?"

"No," she tells him. "I've seen it done but have never attempted it."

"More's the pity," he grumbles, "I've no wish to be your first and end up bloodied for want of a shave. Can you trim a beard, at least?" She agrees to meet his eye and nods. "Pull up that stool, then, and do what you can."

She is soon perched at the side of the tub and wielding scissors. He lifts his arms from the water and drapes them over the tub's edge and she freezes. "Your arm. What's happened to it?"

He lifts and studies it, the scars still pink with new some two years after the fact. "It's a burn," he tells her, though he thinks it should be obvious.

She clucks her tongue. "I can see that. But how did it happen? It's not from Gregor."

"No. This was a gift from a lightning lord and his bloody god of fire." Seeing the question on her face, he shrugs it off. "A story for another time, bird."

She gets to work with the scissors, thumbing his chin to turn his face toward her as she combs through his beard with her fingers and snips at it, casting appraising eyes at her handy work. Meanwhile he watches her, and their gazes lock for brief moments before she'll look away again. Finally she sets the scissors aside and folds her hands in her lap.

He scrubs his hand over his cheek and jaw. She's trimmed it short and close to his face. "How do I look?"

She moistens her lips. "Like a Northman."

"Half of one, anyway. Not much to be done for the other side."

She looks at him for a long time then, and he has the sense that she is collecting herself to do something. His hunch proves true when her eyes begin wandering across his arms and shoulders and then to his chest, exposed above the dingy water. He is not a vain man by any measure, but he knows he's strong and that his body is not unpleasant to look upon, despite the horror of his face. And so he accepts her silent consideration and waits for whatever may come.

Soon she is peering up at him, declaring, "You're quite hairy."

He shouts in laughter and then breaks into a verse of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair,_ and she laughs along with him and joins her voice with his for the last few lines.

_I called for a knight!_

_But you're a bear!_

_A bear! A bear,_

_All black and brown,_

_And covered in hair!_

Their laughter fades and she goes back to her study, but this time hesitantly reaching to lay her hand on his unburnt arm. "You have so many scars," she whispers, tracing the closest and most notable with a fingertip. "So many. Do you remember where they all came from?"

"No. I stopped keeping count a long time ago."

"I remember every one of mine. I used to worry so, when I was young and would fall and scrape my knee or accidentally cut my finger. I didn't want to have scars, I thought they were ugly and no true lady would have them. But then I left Winterfell and found myself in a place that scarred me far more deeply than any blade might. Those are the ones that can't be seen. You have them too."

She dips a cupped hand in the water, brings it to his shoulder and empties it there. Her hand follows the water down, smoothing over the flat pad of muscle that covers his breast and then draws it back up. She fingers the scars along his chest, leaning in to follow one that begins above his heart and trails off beneath his arm and down his ribs.

He shivers at her touch, light enough that it is both tickle and caress, and follows the graceful line of her arm to the open neck of her gown. He watches the rhythmic pulse of blood beneath the skin and his memories of his small tastes of her flood his mind and begin racing through his veins. He can feel himself growing hard, a perfect and primal dichotomy to the softness of her hand against his skin.

"I have other scars too, now," she is murmuring as she pets him. "There are those on my thighs and back, no more than welts really, from Joffrey's games." He flinches, blinking hard, but she does not seem to notice, lost in her own thoughts. She looks sad and yet wears a faint smile as she talks, and he knows what it is to feel both emotions at once. "And more I've gained along the way. They are not ugly, as I had once thought; they are simply reminders of where we have been and what we have endured. And some of them," she reaches and cups his face with both hands, "some of them can even become beautiful, to eyes that know how to look."

A dozen things spring to his mind to say to her but only one comes out, ragged and low. "Why are you crying, little bird?"

She laughs through her tears. "Oh, you silly man, don't you know? It's because I love you." She leans in and kisses him, and he is lost.

He gives no thought to what he does next, reaching for her as she goes to end the kiss, pulling her into the tub and onto his lap as she squeals against his hungry, seeking mouth. He grabs a fistful of hair at the nape of her neck as her lips open under his, and skims his hand down her back and over the curve of her arse, squeezing, as their tongues meet and the kiss deepens. She shifts on his lap and they moan as she straddles him and grinds her hips against his.

"Bloody hells," he growls after the kiss, groping at the sash of her gown. She peppers his face and neck and shoulders with more kisses as his clumsy fingers try to manage the wet knot. Of its own accord, one hand lifts and briefly palms her breast and he can feel the hard point of her nipple through the sodden cloth. He goes back to the sash, snarling in frustration.

"Fuck! Sit back, girl, and let me get this off you."

She pushes back against his bent legs and then comes up on her knees, till the water is at her hips. Biting his lip in concentration, he works the knot until it finally comes loose in his hands. She is gripping the sides of the tub as he reaches up and pushes the gown from her shoulders. The dagged sleeves slither down her arms and pool at her wrists and she shakes them loose. The water swallows the gown but he does not see this. He is transfixed by the sight before him. She is more beautiful than he had imagined - all milky white skin, marbled with fine bluish veins and sprinkled with faint freckles. Her teats are round and full, her nipples pale pink, and a waist small enough to encircle in his hands gives way to the full flare of her hips. She is warm and she is real, she is his and she is …

"Perfect," he murmurs, setting two fingers at the hollow of her throat and pulling them down the center of her chest to her flat belly. "I'm a starving man and you, my little bird, you are a feast." Grasping her hips, he pushes her down past his knees so he can pull them up and shove to his feet, and he takes her along with him.

And then they are touching, everywhere and all at once, skin on skin as he gathers her into his arms and holds her tight. She shifts her weight and molds to him, a missing puzzle piece slipping effortless into place. He fills his lungs and then empties them in a long sigh and she kisses him over his heart.

Letting go enough to manage it, he bends and grabs a sheet from a pile on the floor and drapes it over her shoulders. She studies him with intent, and when he's bundled the cloth around her, he looks down into smoky, infinite eyes and cradles her face in his hands.

"Sansa …" he begins.

"Yes," is all she says. And all she has to say.

He scoops her up in his arms and steps out of the tub, trailing water all the way to their feather bed.

****

**…**


	20. These Scars We Wear

_Is this how it happens,_ he wonders, _a gradual awakening that culminates in such sudden clarity? Is this what it means to fall?_

By all rights he should be deep in dreams, warm under furs and with the girl in his arms. Instead Sandor stands naked and shivering before a window in the bed chamber, looking out into the night. Torches burning orange flames flank both sides of the walkway to the inn, but the darkness beyond is inky black, and that is where he looks the deepest.

 _Because I love you_ , she'd said.

When he was young there was no one to love him but his sister. He cannot remember his mother, taken by a fever before he could walk. His father, a massive and taciturn man, was stern but fair with him more than not, and more a ghost wandering the narrow hallways of the family's keep than any real sort of presence. And Gregor - Gregor was always to be feared.

But his sister …

He tries to recall her face and is saddened when he cannot. But he remembers how brightly she shown. And how she could make him feel whole again, those times he was certain he would not survive another day of agony. She would rock him in her arms and sing to him, smooth back the hair not burned away, and gather all his shattered pieces back into some semblance of a whole. There was never a day in his young life that he did not know he was loved by her, and he loved her in return. It was a simple and fierce thing, that feeling. And he knew with the tenacity of childish wisdom that as long as she loved him, he would survive.

Hate replaced love the day Gregor dragged her into the woods and came back alone and Sandor quickly learned to feed on that instead. A hungry man will eat whatever he is presented; a starving child will do no less. They were bitter and rancid, the nuggets of terrified rage he swallowed down day after day, but they filled the gaping hole where once had lived that bright and shining thing.

He left his family's home the very day Gregor murdered their sire. There was nothing left to hold him there. Sandor was already a tall boy, and strong, and was taken in by the Lannisters as squire. He learned to tolerate the stares his disfigurement would earn him, and the faces turning away in a caustic alchemy of pity and horror. It shamed him, what he saw when others looked at him, and he hated that too, that he should be judged for a wrong that had been done to him, as though it was something he'd brought on himself. The shame tasted of rage and so he swallowed that, too.

The sack of King's Landing was the first time he allowed the festering thing inside him to escape its chains, vile and merciless, and he discovered how good he was at killing and how sweet a thing it could be. The looks of pity he'd got changed to fear and he liked the way that made him feel, better than the other. So he cultivated it, his own dark and secret garden, and fed it whenever he could. He watered it with sour red and kept the agonizing pangs of loneliness at bay with frenzied couplings in dark corridors or small, stale-smelling rooms. He would take his pleasure and return to his cell and drink himself into a stupor and try to forget what it was to be loved.

Sansa makes a small sound from the bed behind him and he turns and watches her roll onto her side. Sleeping hands push at the furs and one leg snakes out from under them, long and slim. She whimpers a second time and goes still.

She had been a blindingly bright thing, helpless and foolish and so very young. He had hated her and wanted her in equal measure and soon she'd become an obsession, a game he played with himself and then, later, with her. He became a dog for true, sniffing around behind her, searching for vulnerabilities to exploit, snapping at her yet craving the scraps she would feed him.

For the first time in many years he'd felt the shame again. Not for any wrong she'd done him, but for the man he had become and could see reflected in her eyes. He was no better than his brother or any of the rest of them; he was a monster, a hypocrite and a liar, and the rage no longer nourished him as it once had. Desperate, frightened, and hungry he'd gone to her as the sky burned green and taken away the very thing he'd so wanted to give.

_And still she loves me. Against all reason and all hope._

He grabs a fur from the foot of the bed and wraps himself warm before folding onto the floor next to where she lays. His eyes move over her face, relaxed and open and vulnerable in sleep. He has never thought to ponder or name what it is he feels for her – not until now. It did not seem important, before. Might be it still isn't, but he longs to give it the legitimacy of a name. For once that is done, it exists for true.

It is not merely a desire to protect her, or that her needs have become more important than his own. It is not the simple pleasure he finds in her company or the fact of her beauty. It is not that he enjoys making her laugh or that his heart quickens when she looks at him long and with impunity. It is not even that she sees him and all that he is and accepts him. It is these things and more; it is everything.

_Is this what love is, then, that I could spill my seed like a green boy at the first touch of her hand on my cock, and laugh with her about it instead of feeling it an indignity? Is it love made me oddly grateful for the time that gave me to learn her well, to find what makes her coo and sigh and arch into my hands? Is it love that let me feel her pain and stilled me, until her whispered urgings finally, finally pushed me to thrust fully into her warmth?_

He thinks hard on it, weighing heart and mind and, deciding, leans and kisses her knobby knee and rests his forehead against it.

 _I'll do anything_ , he prays, _anything you ask of me. Just let me have this for a time. Let me have my lady, my love._

He sighs deep as she stirs and her hand lifts and comes to rest on his shoulder. It slides up his neck and into his hair.

"What are you doing?" she mumbles. "Come to bed, Sandor."

He stands and lets the fur slip to the floor and she slides over to give him room. He curls up against her back, pulling her close, and follows her down into sleep.

****

**…

**

"Stannis holds Moat Cailin," he tells her. "And the banner of House Reed flies below his flaming heart. Bloody _flaming_. What is it with these kings and their buggering fire?"

"You've forgotten about Daenerys and her dragons."

"Haven't forgotten. Choosing not to think about them."

She snickers and feeds him another chunk of cheese. "We shall have no trouble then, continuing north?"

"There will always be trouble," he says as he chews. "Don't matter who holds which castle or town, girl, we're still two people traveling alone and into a north unstable at best. Frey and Bolton men are scattered and wanted, besides, and that's not good for us. Not good for anyone, between the Moat and Winterfell."

"And you're certain Stannis holds it, too."

"Aye, if our host is to be believed. He seems an honest sort."

They are sharing one of the chairs in the solar. It is evening and they have not left this place since first stepping into it the day before. From bed to solar and then back again, their world has become these two small rooms. The first tentative knock at their door had seen Sandor scrambling out of bed half-asleep and throwing it open, naked but for the sword in his hand. There had been no one there, only another tray with more food to break their fast. Two more knocks throughout the day had produced a pile of clean and mended garments and yet more food and drink.

Neither has made use of the clothing, much preferring soft furs to wrap themselves in. But they have been eating everything brought to them, filling bellies long used to being empty. And they've been sleeping. Sandor didn't think it possible to sleep so much, didn't realize how exhausted they were until offered the luxury of ignoring the habit of waking and rising, rolling over instead and drifting back to sleep.

He feels a vague sense of disorientation, not really knowing what time it is or what might be going on outside their rooms. There is no place they must be or anything they should be doing but this. It is a queer feeling but a comfortable one even so, for he has no sense of any real danger here, none at all.

Sansa bends low on his lap to grab a cup from the floor and he steadies her with an arm round her waist. A fire burns hot in the hearth and they are wrapped up together in nothing but a sheet.

"We could stay here," she says, taking a drink and eyeing him over the rim of the cup.

"And do what? This," he waves at the room, "for the rest of our days?"

She hands him the cup and curls into him, her cheek resting on his chest. "Would that be such an awful thing?"

He takes a swallow of wine, emptying the cup, and lets it slip from his fingers and to the floor. It lands with a soft _clunk_.

"We'll stay a while," he tells her, closing his eyes, his head tipping back as she begins fiddling with the hair on his chest, smoothing it down and then fluffing it back up with her fingers. "Long enough to get our fill of sleeping and eating. And fucking," he adds, opening his eyes and peering down at her with sly amusement. She lifts her head, grinning up at him, looking pleased with herself.

They've been doing that, too, though not as much as the rest. Dawn had found them waking and reaching out, beginning anew their explorations. But she had hissed at his curious fingers and so he'd kissed her there instead, and soothed her with his tongue, and soon she was writhing under the anchor of his mouth and his hands upon her. He had fallen asleep still hard and it hadn't mattered at all.

He thought it mid-day, after they'd eaten and just before they dozed off again, when she took him into her a second time. It was easier for her, languid and not so solemn, and they whispered and laughed and played at their love-making. And then a third time, just before he dragged her out of bed and back to the solar, complaining he was hungry again.

"I meant it," she says after a minute. "We could stay here. We're safe here. And we could find suitable work. Mayhaps right here at the inn. I could help serve and you could-"

"You as a serving wench?" he cuts her off with a derisive snort. "Doling out meat and mead and dodging the groping hands of the drunks? That's not going to bloody happen, girl. No, I mean to do as I vowed and see you home, get you to Winterfell where you belong."

"Is that where I belong?"

Grasping her shoulders he pulls her away from his chest far enough to look her straight on. "What foolishness is this, Sansa? Of course it is; you're a Stark. It was all well and good to play at being someone else when it kept you safe, but we're in the North now. Whether here or on the Kingsroad, it's only a matter of time before we come across someone who'll recognize you. And likely me, too. Better to get you home where you'll be safe under Stannis' protection."

"I have your protection," she argues.

"I'm only one man, little bird. I can bleed and die just like any other man. No, you'll be safer within the walls of Winterfell."

"Where I'll be just as much a hostage as I ever was in King's Landing or with Petyr."

"You can't know that. Everything is changed now."

"Not everything. Some things will be as they have always been."

"What are you saying?" He can feel her bristling beneath his hands but cannot understand why. Isn't this what she had asked of him back on the Quiet Isle, to bring her as close to her home as he could? How better could he grant that request than to deliver her straight to the castle walls?

"How long do you think it will take before Stannis realizes what he has in me? _He_ holds Winterfell, not the Starks. It's his now, as is much of the North, it seems. What better way to forge the loyalty of my father's bannermen than to offer the eldest Stark daughter and heir to the North as wife to one of them? Would you see me once again become a pawn in this endless and bloody game of thrones?"

 _No, no_ , _not that,_ he thinks. _Anything but that. We'll find another way._

"Sansa, I only want what's best for you."

"Who are you to decide that?" she snaps, unfolding from his lap and tugging at the sheet covering them. "Who is any man? Only I know what is best for me and I'll not have that choice taken away again. Not by you, not by anyone!"

She gives up her struggle with the sheet and strides naked into the bedchamber, slamming the door as she goes. He is left staring open-mouthed in her wake, mired in wounded confusion.

****

**…**


	21. These Scars We Wear

"Sansa? Little bird?" He knocks again. "Open this and let me in. Please?"

"Leave me alone," comes muffled through the door.

One arm braced high on the wall, he slumps his shoulders and hangs his head, growling in his throat. _Say you're sorry,_ he thinks _._ Then straight on the heels of that: _For what? What did I do?_

He wheels away from the door and sprawls back into the chair. Drumming his fingers on the arms, he glances round the room and at the walls that seem suddenly to be closing in on him. His eyes come to rest on the stack of garments that never made it to the bedchamber and the sight of it decides for him.

"Bugger this." Digging through the pile, he finds and slips on breeches, a long sleeved tunic, and a padded jerkin over that. Socks come next as he sits back down to pull them on. And then he realizes his boots are in the other room – locked in with the girl. Pushing up from the chair he pads over and puts his mouth close to the gap between door and frame. "You want to be alone, I'll leave you alone. But I need my boots. Sansa?"

A long silence follows and then, "Where are you going?"

"Open the bloody door and I'll tell you." He's trying not to get angry but it isn't easy; a leaden weight has taken up residence in his belly and he hates that she has locked herself away from him. He grants a moment's thought to backing up and coming at the door with his shoulder, all his strength behind it, and giving it a good rattle if nothing else. But that would likely only frighten her or anger her even more and he doesn't want that either. Then he wonders why he should care. Cursing softly he tells the door, "I won't go far. Downstairs. Maybe to the stables to check the horse."

He waits through another silence and then takes a step back as the bolt is drawn. The door opens just far enough to admit his boots, clutched in her hand. He takes them and she closes it straight away. This time he can't stop himself and his open hand slaps hard at the frame. "My sword belt, too. I need that. _With_ the sword," he adds. That comes to him through a smaller gap this time, and he bites back the urge to grab her hand before she can lock him out again. But he doesn't. If she wants this, then he'll give it her.

"I won't be gone long," he says, bending and balancing awkwardly as he pulls on his boots. "You'll come out when I've left and bolt the door behind me, do you hear? And you won't leave these rooms. Don't open the door for anyone but me."

He straps on the belt, loosens the blade in its scabbard, and grabs his cloak from a hook. Stepping into the hallway, he pulls the door closed and waits until he hears her lock it.

It's quiet as he comes down the stairs and he finds the common room nearly empty. There are three drunks passed out at three different tables, all nosily snoring. Two other men are talking in a corner, their heads bent together, and they look him over before resuming their conversation. Another man sits with a serving maid in his lap, whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh as his hand slides under her skirts. The innkeep glances up from where he's wiping down one of the tables, a dingy rag in hand.

"Oh, good evening, m'lord. Can I get you something?"

Ignoring him, Sandor walks out into the night, head bent against a cold rain.

****

**…**

He is back at their door little more than an hour later, deeply somber and soaked to the skin. He's managed to walk off his frustration but has gained in its stead a notion of the seed that fueled her anger and it's left him sadly resigned. _I should have asked for forever instead of just for time._ He knows what he must make her see, but it's not a thing he'll gladly do. He takes a calming breath and knocks and her voice rings out almost immediately.

"Sandor?"

"Aye. Let me in, I need -" The door flies open before he can finish and she launches herself at him. Very nearly knocking him off his feet, her arms come round his neck and she begins kissing him wherever her mouth lands.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry," she mutters as she goes. "I didn't know. You never said …"

She is on him like a leech, so he lifts her off her feet with an arm round her waist and carries them through the door. Catching the edge of it with his foot, he kicks it shut. "What's this, bird?"

She delivers a final hard kiss on his cheek as he lowers her, and she slides down his body until her feet are under her. Throwing the bolt, he turns to her as she grabs his hand, back-stepping toward the other room, tugging him along with her. She is wearing one of his threadbare tunics and nothing else, and it's wet at the front from his clothes and clinging to her. He cannot decide where to look and so lets his eyes roam over the whole of her as he is being led to the bedchamber. His resolve begins to weaken at the mere sight of her and he wonders how he can possibly do this thing.

He thinks about the way she is with everyone else; the perfect lady, the fair maiden, safe and untouchable behind her armor of politeness. He gets his share of that from her, too - yet so much more besides. And despite his uncertainty in the face of her shifting moods, he thinks he knows the woman behind the mask better than anyone else alive - and with that begins to realize the magnitude of what that means. The value of it, the depth of her trust, that she can be all she truly is when she is with him. And he loves every aspect of her: her tenacious innocence and her willful temper, her childlike giddiness and her mature solemnity. Moments like this, he cannot imagine a day without her in it - nor does he want to.

She releases his hand and scrambles onto the bed, folding cross-legged like a child in the middle of it. Reaching over, she lays a stack of papers in her lap. He recognizes them instantly and looks up to find her watching him with soft, attentive eyes.

"I didn't mean to come across them, or even read them. I couldn't find anything to tie back my hair so I looked through your bag, the one with your whetstone and tools, and found them there, down at the bottom. They were wrapped in a leather cord, you see," she explains, "and I thought to use that. The letters came open and I saw my name and … well …"

She looks aside, nervously licking her lips.

"It's all right, little bird. They were written for you, after all." His words absolve her of any wrong-doing yet he regrets her discovery of them, coming as it does now. It seems a lifetime ago he wrote them and he was so full of repentance and simple yearnings then; still on his way to becoming the man who stands before her now. It is hard to have his vulnerabilities and flaws laid bare with no warning, but he will not deny them, for that would be a lie and he has always told her the truth.

"You never gave them to me. Why?"

"You've read them; I've no bloody skill with words. The things I do mean more than anything you'll read there." She ponders that as he unfastens his cloak and tosses it onto a chair and as he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his wet boots.

"You wrote of dreams, of those things you wanted."

"I wanted a lot of things, then. A right mind, for one." He looks over his shoulder at her. "And you. I wanted you, most of all."

"And the rest?"

"They're called dreams for a reason, girl."

"Then the cottage with the great stone hearth, the gardens, the woods at our back and the mountains in the distance, capped with snow…" He is shaking his head and she lays her hand on his back. "You don't want those things?"

"Wanting is easy. Having is not."

"That is not an answer. Do you want them?"

He sighs in resignation. "I do."

"Then why are you so anxious to be rid of me?"

He twists to face her, tucking one leg under the other. "To be _rid_ of you?"he repeats. "What in seven bloody hells are you talking about?"

"You know perfectly well. Do you deny that you wish to see me back in Winterfell, and under Lord Stannis' thumb?"

"No, I won't deny the first, but the second…" He takes her hand. "I promised I'd take you home, did I not? Isn't that the very thing you asked of me?"

She looks down at the letters in her lap. "What if I've changed my mind?"

The laughter that escapes him is tinged with exasperation and cuttingly sharp too, as her words seem to confirm his earlier suspicions. But he needs be certain before he says more. Scrubbing his face with his hands he asks, "I'm somehow to know this? Do I look like a bloody mind reader, Sansa?"

She wrinkles her brow as her mouth pulls tight. "But I thought… After last night and today… After everything that's come before, I thought you'd know."

"If I'm leading men into battle, don't you think it would be wise of me to apprise them of my plans, my strategy of attack, instead of assuming they'll simply know?"

"Well, yes, but this is not a battle, Sandor."

"Isn't it?"

She looks pained. "What are you saying?"

"We have been open to attack since we left Quiet Isle and there is more danger ahead of us, no matter what it is you want to do. If you decide not to go to Winterfell, I promise you sooner or later someone _will_ discover you're alive and in the North. It's only a matter of time before word spreads, and to the ears of those who lay claim to armies – on both sides of the Neck. We would have to hide ourselves deep, little bird, where no one could find us. Think about what that means."

"I have. I've thought of little else. But it's what I want."

"No matter the cost?"

"What else have I to lose?"

"That you can even ask that is proof you've not thought about it at all – or you have and you're lying to yourself. Look at me." He waits until he has her full attention and repeats the words he earlier practiced in the rain for this very moment, now that his suspicions have proven true. "Listen to me carefully. You are a true-born Stark. You may very well be the last of your line; one that stretches back for thousands upon thousands of years. Winterfell is your home, your birthright, your bloody legacy. It's the only thing you have left of your family. Are you so willing to turn your back on it, knowing the hardships you'll face should you do so? The life you say you want will not be an easy one, Sansa. The choice you make is one you'll live with until the end of your days."

He watches the varied emotions flicker across her face and tries to distance himself from his own feelings. It would be too easy to simply surrender to what she wants, with no thought to the consequences. But he has come too far to go back to being a man who questions nothing, who simply follows orders. And he has learned the hard lesson that every act carries with it its own unique price. Better she learn that now and gently then later, when the cost has become too great.

When she finally looks back up at him her eyes are shiny with unshed tears. "You would see me back in Winterfell and my future vulnerable to the whims of men who know me only as Eddard Stark's daughter, with all that implies? You would see me wed to another man, a man I could never love as I love you? Could you stand by as I share his bed and raise his children?"

"You don't know that would happen," he retorts, knowing full well the truth of it; it would only be a matter of time before she was married off to some lord. He is learning that even honest men will avoid truths too painful to admit.

"Now you are the one playing at self-deception," she scolds, clearly seeing through him, as though he is transparent as glass. "Answer me, Sandor. Could you do that?"

"I gave you my word. I am yours until you no longer have need of me."

"No!" she says, shaking her head, flushed with anger. "No, those are _not_ the vows you gave! You swore you would stay with me until your last breath. Answer me! Would you see another man take me as his wife?"

She is slowly but inexorably backing him into a corner he does not want to be in. "No one can force you to wed against your wishes," he points out, and a moment later realizes the folly of his words and desperately wants to take them back. But it is too late, and he sees it in her eyes.

"Would that I could forget my marriage to Tyrion Lannister as easily as you."

Faced with her increasing fury and his own swiftly rising to match it, he struggles to find his way back to level ground. "Sansa, enough. I don't care to argue this with you."

"Then answer me."

"Sansa -"

"Answer me! Why won't you do that? Does the thought of it frighten you so, that you cannot even speak of it?"

The last shred of his patience vanishes in an instant and he grabs her by the shoulders and yanks her face close to his, so she is all he can see. "It doesn't frighten me, girl, it infuriates me!" he snarls. "You think that's anything I bloody want? I'd rather carve my fucking eyes out than see another man's hands on you. I'll leave before that day comes. But I'll not be the one to take Winterfell away from you either! I'll not carry the weight of that decision when the day comes you wake and realize what you've given up, and for me. For _me_!"

He lets go of her and turns away, giving her his back. "I have nothing to offer you, girl. Nothing but my sword and my heart. Same as before, just older, might be wiser - but still a man with no lands, no titles, and no gold. A man fit to serve you, nothing more."

She is very quiet behind him and he waits for the inevitable, for her to know the truth of his words and accept it – as she should. Better now than before it's too late. After an eternity he hears the crinkle of the letters as she sets them aside and then a barely audible sigh. When she finally speaks her voice is solemn and low.

"If I thought there any way possible of having both, then that is what I would want. But there isn't. I've dreamed of showing you Winterfell, sharing it with you, having you at my side. I think we could be happy there. But not the way it is now, empty of my family and full of strangers. That is not what I want. Know this, Sandor, these days we have spent together have been the happiest of my life. You keep to your pledge and deliver me to Winterfell and I could live within its walls, but it will never be my home, not without you. Home is where I am loved. Home is with you." A cautious hand lands on his shoulder, warm and strong. "You are my family now. Would you ask me to give that up for cold granite walls and some ridiculous sense of propriety, all for the sake of becoming some other man's strategic gain? Do you care for me so little you would ask me to surrender the only real thing of value in my life?"

He finds he cannot speak should he even know what to say, because his throat has closed tight. The floor beneath his feet shimmers and dances as hot tears fill his eyes. He knows himself not to be worthy of what she's so determined to forfeit. But he desperately wants to believe he can be, someday. He wants more than anything to be that precious thing she sees him to be. A large part of him is awed by the realization of what each of them is willing to sacrifice for the other, and he is overwhelmed by his love for her. He cannot form words to tell her as much, so instead he twists and bends and curls his back into the niche of her lap, resting his head upon her thigh. One of her hands comes to cup it as the other begins to stroke down his back and he is quickly overcome.

"It's all right," she murmurs, folding to rest her cheek against his hair. "It's all right."

He has not cried like this since after the she-wolf left him on the banks of the Trident. That day had seen both a death and a birth, possible only because someone had found him and believed in him enough to stay. Sandor cannot help but wonder if this moment is just the same as that. He recognizes the scalding fusion of gratitude and regret and thinks that perhaps this sort of pain is nothing more than the pain of being born.

 _I'll find a way to give back to her all she's given me,_ he vows as his weeping subsides and he pulls her down to lay with him. _Bugger them all –I won't let her go. She is mine._

****

**…**

They find each other in the hours just before dawn, reaching out in sleep. A blind tug here, a searching pat there, confirming presence and warm skin. Still wrapped in dreams, their pats become caresses, lingering and acute. Tugs become contact and deepen as long limbs twine and weights shift.

So instinctual and thoughtless are their movements that by the time Sansa comes fully awake, he is already easing his way inside her, rocking slowly and so deep, weight braced on his forearms above her, his hips pinning hers to the bed.

She arches against him, wrapping herself around him, moaning softly as he shifts, his hands moving to cup her face. She opens her eyes to the half-light of the few candles still burning and he watches as her sleepy, gentle gaze focuses on him.

He dips his head and begins kissing her: her forehead, cheeks, the tip of her nose, her chin, each eyelid - and her skin is velvet soft against his mouth, against his hands. He moves smoothly within her the whole time, languid and poignant as sweet, sad music. She matches his rhythm and soon each thrust of their hips weave glittering threads of light and heat between them and pull them ever tauter, until he is driving into her with the force of his need and she begins to sing beneath him; that sweetest song that only he will ever hear.

Dipping one last time, Sandor brings his mouth to hers and whispers against her lips, "My little bird. My life. I love you so."

His mouth claims hers as the world around them shatters and fades away. Nothing is left but the two of them and this moment. Nothing else matters but this.


	22. These Scars We Wear

They have been a week in the village, getting their fill of all the things they've been without. They are rested and stronger, both in body and in spirit. Yet another dimension is added to their relationship as they discover what it means to be lovers in all ways. Sandor explores the new sense of peace he has found, what seems to be a wellspring of contentment he can draw from that is deep and clear, untainted by the doubts he has lived with for so long. It is an unfamiliar thing and he is tentative at first, but all he needs do is look up to find her eyes on him, gentle and warm, and he knows he is safe with her and well loved.

It is Sansa who decides it is time to move on, to continue their journey north. She announces it one evening as they sup in the common room of the inn. He does not question her decision, though he is surprised by it. He'd thought she might truly want to stay where they are, but she speaks of a small voice inside her that urges her north. He studies her long before nodding, and that is all there is to it.

They wake the next morning and begin making preparations. Sandor spends the better part of an afternoon haggling over the price of a spirited brown and white gelding for Sansa, walking away several times only to return, grumbling about being robbed even as he finally and reluctantly hands over the coin. He leads the horse away smiling inwardly, knowing he has gotten the better end of the deal. They are both measured for new clothing and boots, along with heavy fur-lined hooded cloaks and gloves to keep them warm. Supplies are purchased and pile up in one corner of the solar, waiting to be packed. He growls at her over things he finds there that are impractical, like needlework she's bought to work on and two pair of soft slippers, but he manages to get it all in their bags anyway.

They spend their last night eating in the common room, where Sansa gives both the innkeep and his wife brief but earnest embraces. Sandor slips the man another dragon and is summarily promised the suite as theirs, should they should ever pass through again. They linger over supper and then stay a while longer to share a cup of wine by the fire. A look is soon exchanged and they rise and climb the stairs hand in hand. Once within the solar he steers her toward the freshly laid fire and slowly undresses her, and then himself. Settling into one of the chairs he pulls her onto his lap so she is straddling him, and shows her a new way to love him. She falls asleep not long after they are finished, arms tucked up between them, her cheek on her fists, and he easily rises with her in his arms and carries her to the bed as she whimpers quietly and then goes still.

Sandor wakes before dawn the next morning. He dresses in the dark and goes to the solar, pulling the inner door most of the way closed. He can let her sleep a while longer. He learned to appreciate the peacefulness of early mornings while on Quiet Isle and still enjoys those times he can be alone with his own thoughts. Another form of prayer, Elder Brother had once remarked, and he supposes it's true. But he finds himself anxious this morning and can think only of the road ahead. Once past Moat Cailin they will turn eastward toward White Harbor. Along with supplies Sandor has been gathering information, and by all accounts Lord Manderly has managed to restore peace in the surrounding lands there. They will find a place to stay in one of the outlying villages and decide what to do from there. He is content with allowing Sansa to lead their way. He needs only be with her, it doesn't matter the place.

He has come to realize these past several days that she is truly a child of the North. She is changing in imprecise but noticeable ways. She seems more alive to him than ever before, but the thought does not cross his mind that he is in any way responsible for these changes. It is larger than that, something vast and unknowable. He has not forgotten their encounter with the wolf pack on the Kingsroad, or that she thought to look for and then found a weirwood amongst the swamps, and knew about this place when he had no memory of it. Sandor is not a man who believes in magic, but he understands on some primitive level that she may be driven by forces greater than he can comprehend.

He pulls back the drapes from a window and levers it open, filling his lungs with air that is crisp, cold, and infused with the aroma of bread baking in the kitchen below and wood fires being stoked. The western horizon is still dark with remnants of the long night, but as Sandor looks up he can see dawn spreading its pearlescent, plumy fingers over his head. And then he hears it, a lower and deeper sound, over the warbling of the early birds in the marsh beds surrounding the village. Years of experience have tuned his ears to the unmistakable resonance of a large group of men at march. Pushing open the window as far as it will go, he sticks his head out and looks to his left down the Kingsroad and then to his right, to the south. He sees the torches as tiny specks of orange, bouncing slightly with the strides of the men carrying them. There are no riders that he can see and he squints at what he thinks may be house banners, but the wind is calm and he cannot be certain. It doesn't matter who they are - what matters is that he knows their destination.

Like a door swinging closed, all other thoughts cease and his mind shifts, turns, and moves through a different door into a place that is coldly composed and instinctual. He grabs his sword belt from the chair where he's laid it and secures it on his hips as he pushes into the bedchamber. Sansa is curled asleep, her back to him. He steps to the bed and smacks her hard on the arse once and then again twice, to be sure she feels it through the furs.

"Wake up, girl. Get dressed and be quick about it – we've company."

****

**…**

He is standing in the hallway outside their locked door, hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, when they make their way up the stairs. He mislikes the narrow hall and the odds of it impeding the full swing of his blade. He lightly touches the hilt of his dagger as the face of the first man appears. There are three more behind him and their steps are light and quick.

Crannogmen, all of them.

They are similarly dressed in soft skins of mottled greens, grays, and browns, draped with cloaks trimmed in fur. All are armed with daggers and three-tined spears, and two with bows as well, strung across their backs. The man in the lead approaches Sandor with no hesitation, though his companions stay well back. He wonders briefly if they would be foolish enough to try to stop him if he were to make for the stairs. It would take two of them and half again as many to equal his size. Confident of the odds, Sandor lets out a held breath and takes a long look at the man who stops in front of him.

Small and lithe, he has perhaps ten years on Sandor, maybe more. Long chestnut hair laced with gray curls at his shoulders and his eyes shine the mossy green common to his people. He is clean-shaven and a jagged scar runs from above his left ear down almost to his jaw. He lets himself be examined and sticks out his hand.

"You're Sandor Clegane," the man announces.

Years spent in court have rendered him an impassiveness that serves him well at the sound of his name delivered so casually. Sandor glances at the extended hand and then back up. He remains mute and unmoving and soon the offer of a handshake is withdrawn.

"Not the friendly sort, are you? Just as well," the crannogman says, "you can't talk a man to death, can you - though I've known some who've tried. I assume Sansa Stark is behind that door you're guarding. I need speak to her. It's very important."

"And who might you be that you have business with my lady?"

"Forgive me, I didn't introduce myself. I am Howland Reed, an old friend of her father's. I have come with news she'll want to hear."

****

**…**

"How … how is this possible?" Sansa sinks in the chair gracefully enough that no one else would guess she is likely about to lose her legs. But he knows her well and shares her distress. Taking a step forward, Sandor places himself next to her. Reed sits across from them, perched on the edge of his seat, elbows on his knees.

"I realize this must be shocking news, my lady."

"All of Westeros knows the lads were murdered by Theon Greyjoy when he sacked Winterfell. Now you're saying her brothers are alive?"

Reed glances up at him. "Aye, that's what I'm saying. They hid themselves in the crypts below the castle and later escaped with the help of my two children, along with a wildling woman and one of Ned's stable boys, a big lad, bigger than you to hear tell."

"Hodor," she murmurs.

"The bodies thought to be your brothers were those of a villager's boys. Bran and Rickon are alive, Lady Sansa, and Rickon already at Winterfell. He is merely a child, as you well know, but he is being taught what he needs learn and is surrounded by the most trustworthy of those loyal to your father. Their guardianship has proven impeccable. "

"What of Bran?" she asks.

Howland looks at them in turn and then at some distant point over Sansa's shoulder. "It may be some time before he is able to travel. The journey will prove more … difficult for Bran. But I can assure you he is alive and safe with my daughter Meera."

It is uncanny the way Sansa voices his next thought. Or perhaps it's not strange at all.

"It is said Stannis Baratheon has laid claim to my home," she says.

"No, that is not so. Stannis recaptured Winterfell, that much is true, but not for himself. He did leave a small contingent of men there when he rode for White Harbor, and along with several of your father's bannermen to guard the castle they make for a sizable army. But only one sigil flies over Winterfell and it is your direwolf."

Sansa looks up sharply at the man across from her. "How could you know to look for me here? How did you know; we've been so careful."

For the first time Howland Reed smiles and it transforms not only his face, but his entire demeanor. "I think you already know the answer, my dear. If not for your prayers, you may well have passed through the Neck undiscovered."

It is a long time before Sansa speaks, but Sandor is sure of her conclusion before she ever voices it. It makes no kind of sense to him but it is undeniable nonetheless, even to someone as ignorant of the ways of the old gods as he.

"The heart tree. We were seen … and heard."

Reed nods quickly. "I was granted knowledge of your approach to the village - you and your … man."

Sandor's face remains a mask, but he cannot stifle the tiny twitch of his mouth. Inside he is spinning like a child's top, dizzy with it, as everything he thought he knew and believed is being upended in a moment's time.

"The people here …" she begins to ask.

"Those who were told understood that your safety and comfort were paramount. I had hoped you would stay long enough to rest and regain your strength, and give me time to prepare. I know your journey has been a long and arduous one, and it will be longer still before it is over."

"What do you mean, my Lord? Why are you here?"

"Because time is running short and winter will soon return. There is a war coming, Lady Sansa, and you must go where you needs be. The North is stronger when there are Starks within the walls of the castle. I've come to see you safely home – as well as deliver your father's remains. It is past time he be laid to rest alongside the true Lords of Winterfell."

****

**…**

They are alone again, Howland Reed having left shortly after his pronouncement, offering Sansa time to absorb the news he has presented. Sandor finds he needs time as well. Thoughts scurry like rats inside his head and he cannot keep track of any of them, does not know which to grasp first to begin to unravel this development.

They both keep quiet. He isn't sure what to say and so waits for her to break the silence. Sansa eventually sighs and rises from the chair, crossing to the window. She pulls back the drape, looking out on the village surrounding them. Sandor turns to watch her but remains where he is.

"Do you believe him?" she asks after a minute. "You once told me you could smell a lie. Is he telling the truth?"

"I think he is."

"He cannot force me to go if I do not wish it."

"No, he can't. Nor will he try."

She glances back at him just as his hand curls round the grip of his sword and their eyes hold through a lengthy, mutual appraisal. He sees in her a calm and sober approval and basks in it for a brief moment before she looks away again.

"Bran is the true heir to Winterfell. And in his absence it is Rickon who sits as Warden of the North. I have no claim to any of it, not anymore. I may still be viewed as valuable commodity to some men, but none can directly gain the Stark home or lands by way of marriage to me."

"That won't stop the suitors from lining up to court you. Don't think otherwise, little bird."

"They may line up as they please, it will make no difference. I have already chosen."

He barks a sharp laugh. "Imagine their faces when they get a good look at the bloody cur you've brought home to warm your bed."

She laughs in turn, goes somber, and states definitively, "Bugger them all."

And then he is behind her and wrapping his arms round her, pulling her close. He rests his forehead on her slender shoulder for a moment and then sets his chin on the crown of her head. "The day comes you grow weary of the unwanted attention, you can leave as easily as you came. I'll make certain of that."

A silence falls over them again. He is content to simply hold her and feel her breathing against him. He senses in her the contradictory emotions, same as his, and knows she is not yet firmly decided. He wonders at his own conclusion despite his conflict, the resolution which has settled so swiftly upon him. And then he thinks perhaps it was never for him to have any real choice. Perhaps every moment since he first saw her has led him to where he is now, that this path was chosen for him.

"What am I to do, Sandor; pray tell me?"

"It's not my decision to make. Only you know what is it you ought do." He can almost hear her in his head, prodding him to say it for her. Might be she needs someone else to utter the words, so they can become a solid thing that she can take hold of, measure against what she is feeling and what she knows. "Go home, Sansa," he dips his head and whispers close to her ear. "Go home where you belong."

She turns until her smooth cheek is resting against his ruined one. "And you? Will you stay with me?"

His arms tighten round her before he answers.

"Until my last breath."

She wheels in his embrace, holding on to him with fierce intent, and he knows it is done. They will make their way to Winterfell and whatever future awaits them there. And they will do it together.

Bugger them all, indeed.

**…**


	23. These Scars We Wear

"Gods, I'd forgotten how bloody big it is."

"As did I," Sansa says.

He shifts his eyes from the sight ahead of them over to her. They've hung back from their escort and allowed them all to pass, and now they are the only ones still at the cairn marking the crossroad leading to Winterfell. It sits less than a league ahead of them, almost lost in the white, rising up out of the earth like one of the mountains farther north, as if it has always been there and always will.

The weather has favored them up until now, making the journey from Moat Cailin to here a short one, less than a fortnight. But now the snow is falling in fat and heavy flakes and the wind bites at their exposed faces.

"Are you ready, bird, or do you mean for us to set up camp here?"

"If you could just give me another minute."

She turns to him and there is a strange expression on her face. It is not a sad, not precisely. Not anxious either, nor excited. _Resolute_ , he decides, and _thoughtful_.

"Do you want me to go on ahead?" he asks, thinking she might want a minute to herself but she quickly declines. "What is it, then?"

"I find myself a bit frightened. Isn't that odd?"

"No. You were a child when you left, Sansa, and it's a woman coming back. You'll find your way – you must give it time."

"I don't think I looked back once, the day I left. I was so anxious to be away. I had so many dreams, then."

"And now you're returning with different ones. That's the way it should be."

"If it is not…" she hesitates. "If things don't seem well…"

"Say go and we'll go. How many times must I tell you?"

"Only every time I ask," she responds, giving him a muted smile.

He chuckles and teases her. "Then I'll be the bloody bird, chirping away. Wouldn't that be something?"

She doesn't take the offered jest. Instead she holds his eye as her face settles into a serious one. "I could not do this without you. I love you, Sandor, with all my heart."

He wonders for a moment why she's chosen now to reaffirm her feelings for him. They don't talk about what they mean to each other or what this should be like for them. As with so much else it has simply happened and is yet another thread in the tapestry of what they have created between them. In the end, he accepts her words as the precious gift he knows them to be.

Grinning at her, he retorts, "And here I thought you were smarter than that." Leaning across and slapping her gelding on the flank, digging his heels into Stranger at the same time, he lets out a raspy hoot and shouts, "Let's go, before my stones freeze off!"

They are soon galloping through the snow, their mounts neck and neck, laughing like children. As they come up on their escort and to the edge of Winter Town, slowly being restored from the ashes, there is a moment when the setting sun filters through her hair as it streams back from her face, setting it afire. Her color is high, her stature regal, and he believes that he has never seen anything more beautiful than Sansa.

 _My Lady of Winterfell_ , he thinks with swelling pride. _No need to worry, for they shall all love you. How could they not?_

**…**

His reception once inside the castle walls is much as he had thought it would be, and quite the opposite of the one Sansa receives. But he is inured to the lingering stares and the furtive glances, and the things he hears whispered are no worse than any he's heard before. There are several tense moments when he sees hands moving for steel as they make their way toward the Great Hall, and he meets each apprehensive study with a calm gaze of his own, stilling those hands through eyes that hold no threat. He rides beside Sansa and is accompanied by Howland Reed and his men, for whom he has gained a certain fondness. Crannogmen they may be, but they have proven themselves fierce in their loyalty and have accepted him without question. And the woman beside him, hailed with enthusiastic welcome, grants him all the permission he needs to be here, amongst these northmen of hers.

Still, he remains alert and keeps his face impassive as he dismounts and steps to her horse, lifting her from the saddle and to the muddy ground outside the massive hall. For now he is nothing more than her sworn shield, at her side for her protection. The massive double doors of the Great Hall swing open and a huge, shaggy bear of a man steps out, draped in leather and fur and sporting an impressive array of weapons on his person. He moves toward the girl and dips his head.

"Lady Sansa, we've been expecting you. I am Jon Umber but I'm called Greatjon, if it please you. I fought alongside your father and your brother too - may the gods grant them both peaceful rest - and was honored to do so. House Umber swears its allegiance to House Stark, my lady, now and always. Welcome home."

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Lord Umber," Sansa murmurs. "I remember you and your sons sharing our table at many a harvest feast. Your loyalty to my family is beyond reproach. I thank you for all you have done here to help in rebuilding my home." She pauses and then lifts an open hand adding, "I have the honor of introducing to you my sworn shield, Sandor Clegane. If not for him, I would not be standing here today. He is to be granted unrestricted access to Winterfell and all its surrounds, and his orders are to be followed as if they were mine own."

She stops, waiting, and takes measure of the man before them. Sandor does the same, though his mind is busy trying to untangle the rationale behind her blunt declaration. Umber works his mouth as he glances between them, seemingly caught somewhere between shock and amusement - and more than a little displeasure too, Sandor thinks, though in no way directed at the girl.

"As it pleases my lady," he manages to growl.

Sandor concentrates hard on a spot to the side of the man's head. But this time when a hand is offered him he takes it, trying not to flinch as his knuckles are ground together in the old man's grip. Both appraise the other with warrior's eyes and the Greatjon finally releases him and turns to Sansa.

"Please, come inside. The boy is within and anxious to see his sister."

He goes on ahead of them and Sandor leans in and whispers, "What are you up to, little bird?"

She ignores him. Instead, with deliberate precision, she strokes down his back and threads her arm through his. He barely suppresses a shocked snort of laughter at her audacity. This open show of affection will likely speak louder than anything else she might say. A small hush falls over the men of the castle who've gathered round them, but Sansa seems to take no notice and steps lightly with him into the Great Hall as the murmuring starts up behind them.

That is how it goes for the next few hours. At times he feels as if he's fighting a battle. But this is like none he's faced before and his weapons are not the steel he is so comfortable with but words instead, carefully chosen not to incite, anger, or offend. The last thing he wants is to have to cross blades on his first day here. Uncomfortable as he is, he stays at her side as he should, and she continues to be open in her affection toward him, though he takes great pains not to respond. Soon enough a few of the many frowns begin to soften. But Sandor does not deceive himself into believing it an acceptance – that will take far longer – but it is something of a beginning. The one thing apparent to him is that Sansa is loved and respected simply by virtue of being Ned Stark's daughter. He does not have that sort of advantage and never will. But if those gathered see she is content with him, there is a chance that one day they might be as well.

Face after face appears before him, each with a name, a pledge to House Stark, and a story, but he only recalls a few. There is Maege Mormont, who serves as one of Rickon's guardians, and a Glover whose name he can't remember; Tallharts, Flints, and Liddles. He meets Hallis Mollen, captain of the house guard, and several of the men under his command. They all greet Sansa kindly, some more somber than other, and cast level, appraising eyes at him. He lets himself be looked at and tries not to jerk every time Sansa threads her fingers through his or leans against him.

Trays of meat are eventually brought out and laid at table, along with casks of ale and wine, and loaves of bread still steaming from the ovens. The appearance of food seems to signal a change from formal to less so, and he is finally able to relax a bit. There is nothing ceremonial about this meal at all, most filling plates or trenches and sitting where they please amongst the several groups spread out in the drafty hall. A fiddler takes a corner nearest a hearth and begins playing. Voices pitched high and low, raucous and serious, fill the hall with a cacophony that soon has Sandor seeking a quieter place closer to the main doors. Sansa is still seated at the high table, head bent and engrossed in conversation with the Mormont woman. He judges he can be at her side within seconds, decides that's not close enough, and then shakes his head at his foolishness. She is home, and he knows her to be safe.

He folds onto a bench, leaving a good deal of room between himself and the youngest of the Starks, who's contentedly gnawing on a rib almost as big as he is. His legs swing back and forth, not yet long enough that his feet touch the floor. He is more Tully than Stark, judging by his look. _And more wildling_ , Sandor thinks, _than not_. Eventually the boy takes notice of him and swipes an arm across his mouth as he chews.

"What happened to your face?" he asks. Credit is due the lad: Rickon looks him straight on.

"Dragon," Sandor tells him, watching as his eyes go wide and he swallows hard.

"For true?"

"Aye, when I was just about your age."

"Was it Balerion?"

"No. This one was called Gregor."

"Gregor? That's a stupid name for a dragon."

Sandor laughs. "Yes, it is, isn't it? But it doesn't matter - he's dead now, just like the other one. Done for by a viper."

"A snake can't kill a dragon."

"This one did."

Rickon considers that for a while and then asks, "Do you belong to my sister?"

Sandor leans back and gives him a long look. "Aye, lad," he finally says, "I suppose I do."

"Good," the boy declares, hopping off the bench. "Will you teach me how to swing a sword? They say I'm not old enough yet, but I already know how to use a dagger, Osha taught me. I wouldn't even care if it wasn't a real sword, to start."

Sandor scrubs at his beard, hiding a smile. "I'll speak to your sister later, see what she thinks. But you'll have to listen to me and do exactly as I say. No bloody games while we're training and no back-talk neither; the learning of arms is a serious matter, boy."

"I'll listen, I promise!" The lad is almost vibrating with excitement, bouncing from one foot to the other. "I have to tell Osha!" He spins and takes off for the other side of the hall, leaving Sandor grinning openly for a brief moment before rearranging his face into something more befitting a noble woman's sworn shield.

****

**…**

"I want there to be no doubt!" she persists.

They are standing in the private chambers that were her lady mother's and now are hers. Sansa's arms are folded across her chest and she glares up at him with stubborn intent.

He hitches the bags he's come to fetch higher on his shoulder. "I think you've made it bloody damn clear, bird. If they haven't figured out I'm more than your shield, then they've got no eyes in their heads. Why rub their noses in it too?"

"You do not want to share my bed?"

"Seven hells, Sansa, of course I do! You think it's been easy for me, sleeping with bloody crannogmen every night instead of next to you? But this is not about what I want, or even what you want – hard as that may be to accept. You already have the respect of these men; I don't. It's something I needs earn and I cannot do that by starting out this way. Too many down there already want me dead."

"None of them would dare try. They know you as my shield."

"They also know me as a traitor and a craven; the Lannister dog who deserted during battle and abandoned his position as Kingsguard. And need I remind you of Saltpans?"

"That is not the man you are."

"You know that; they do not. They'll be watching me every bloody minute, looking for cause to mistrust me. Is that what you want? I must give them reason to forget all they've heard – most of which is true, by the way – and convince them I'm not their liege lady's pet, nor her despoiler. Complain all you want, little bird, but I'll not change my mind. My chamber is just down the hall; that's where I'll be sleeping."

"For the time being," she insists.

"For the time being," he agrees, hoping to placate her. "And when that change comes, it will be for me to decide, not you. Do you understand?"

"You are speaking to me like I'm a child," she pouts.

"You're bloody behaving like one! Next thing, you'll be stomping your foot."

She opens her mouth to protest and he narrows his eyes at her in silent warning. He is tired - they both are - and no good can come of arguing. They share a long, combative look before her features start to soften with surrender and she steps closer, laying a hand on his chest. "I miss you, Sandor."

He covers it with his own. "I'm right here, little bird."

"That is not what I meant."

He chuckles quietly, drops the bags from his shoulder, and gathers her in his arms. He can feel the tension seeping out of both of them within the embrace and soon she nuzzles closer and rises up on her toes to nip at his throat with sharp little teeth. A different, sweeter, sort of tension begins to build between them and he thoughtlessly tightens his grip on her.

"Sansa," he warns.

She hums a reply and slips her hand under his jerkin, smoothing it over the curve of his arse before grabbing hold.

"Stop it," he growls, but even to his ears it sounds a futile command.

"Stay," she whispers close to his ear. "Just for a time. I want you inside me; it's been too long."

He chides himself for his weakness - that he can be so thoroughly undone by her words. But it is a heady thing to be desired in such a way, and by the only woman he has ever longed for. So he twists to head to look over his shoulder, making certain the lock on the door has been thrown, and then scoops her up in his arms and tosses her onto the bed. He muffles her laughter with his mouth and pulls in her breath to make it his own.

****

**…**


	24. These Scars We Wear

Two months pass in the blink of an eye, a whirlwind of activity that leaves him little chance to reflect on any of it. The restoration of Winterfell continues, the increasing severity of winter's return pushing master carpenters and stonemasons to begin assigning shifts of workers to labor day and night, and Sandor soon becomes used to falling asleep to the sound of hammering and orders being shouted across the courtyard. He accompanies Sansa and the Greatjon on their daily circuit within the castle walls, overseeing the progress of the work before beginning his own labors. He and Umber have forged a wary but peaceable alliance and his infrequent, thoughtful suggestions are no longer looked upon with disdain, but given careful consideration.

Despite Sansa's uneasiness at the prospect, he joins groups of bannermen and house guards on several forays into the Wolfswood, flushing out and eliminating outlaw bands of Boltons and Freys and the occasional Ironborn. His first day back in full plate and mail is a heady one, and the wide arc of his sword sending sprays of blood before and behind it is exhilarating. But each sortie that follows dampens the initial satisfaction, as he returns blood-spattered and solemn to face Sansa. It dawns on him after one such incursion, as he lies with his head cradled on her breast and being held instead of holding, that the man who had taken such joy in killing no longer exists. It is a task now, a chore that must be seen to; and though his skills remain intact, his enthusiasm for it is but a memory.

So he is learning to find joy in other things. There are the stolen moments with the girl, swift and furtive, pulling her into darkened passageways and feasting at her mouth, his hands desperate to discover anew the landscape of teat and hip, of waist and slender thigh. He sneaks into her chamber as often as he can of an evening, but exhaustion precludes desire most nights, and he is asleep before the thought of going to her completes itself.

Every morning finds him in the training yard outside the armory, the youngest Stark his shadow. Their lessons begin to draw boys of Rickon's age and then the older ones, until he has a sizable group he oversees. Before long several of the men gather round as well, and soon enough after lessons end, blows and bruises are exchanged between him and whichever amongst them is feeling bravest that day. He defeats them all with blunted sword and bloodied fists but shows no outward satisfaction at his victories, and eventually he begins to see respect writ on their faces. And that is a far sweeter thing to him than besting them at combat.

He is discovering contentment in the camaraderie he finds among the men here, a thing he never sought out or desired in King's Landing. These men are different than their southron counterparts, loud and boisterous, often rude, and fiercely tenacious in their opinions and beliefs. They have no use for titles or sacred vows, instead judging a man by his deeds and the substance of his character. He has several times found himself confronted by those demanding explanation for acts he committed while serving the Lannisters; he denies none that are true. An accounting of his time on Quiet Isle is offered not as excuse, but as catalyst for who he has become.

He learns of the old gods and their ways from Sansa and Howland Reed both, and yet still more from the wildling woman named Osha. Soon he finds himself carving a few minutes from each day to visit the godswood, standing silently before the weirwood there and trying his best to listen. He asks for much the same as he did at the sapling in the Neck, only now it is forever for which he pleads, instead of an ephemeral amount of time, as his dreams grow larger in proportion to his deepening love for Sansa.

Eddard Stark is finally laid to rest in his family's crypt. Sandor attends at Sansa's request and consoles her after the others have gone; wiping away her tears and whispering words of comfort he had found himself incapable of just a few short months ago. He knows her better now, and what she needs to hear.

Just yesterday saw the arrival of a small group of night's watchmen, led by their Lord Commander and there at the behest of a raven sent when he and Sansa had first arrived. Jon Snow is a solemn young man, with features that reflect the severity of the life he has chosen, his weary eyes more befitting a man twice his years. Sandor takes to him immediately and without question and, oddly enough, Snow seems to do the same. Not long after the reunion with what remains of his family, Jon meets with Sansa, Howland Reed, Maege Mormont and the Greatjon behind closed doors, a gathering that lasts many hours and finds Sansa emerging wan and grim-faced.

Bran Stark will not be returning to Winterfell, she tells him later, not soon or likely ever. He remains beyond the Wall, his future tied irrevocably to the great war Jon warns is soon upon them. And there is more, besides. A document and will, written by Robb Stark, duly signed and witnessed, granting Jon legitimacy, naming him a Stark for true and heir to Winterfell. But Jon will not forsake his vows to the Night's Watch, Sansa relates, and another set of papers will be drawn up, passing all to his remaining kin.

Sandor goes looking for her this morning after, having dismissed his warriors-in-the making and managing to pry Rickon from his side long enough to shove him into the maester's chamber for more lessons. He finds her in the godswood, as he thought he might.

"My lady," he greets her formally, though there is a teasing edge to his voice.

She begins to play along, responding with a tiny smile. "My lord. I hope this day finds you well."

"On my feet and breathing. Couldn't be better. And you?" She starts to answer but then shakes her head instead, attempting another smile and doing poor work of it. His brow furrows as he gets a good look at her. "What is it, bird?"

"It seems my … my brother is rather unconventional in his thinking these days. We spoke earlier this morning and he believes it best that I not serve as regent to Rickon."

"No?" Sandor is surprised. This is not something he thought to be in question. "Why is that?"

She chuffs quietly. "Because he wants me to sit Winterfell's high seat." As Sandor takes this in, she goes on. "He says as eldest it is mine by rights, if I choose it. It is not unheard of for a woman to sit as head of her House. It is common in Dorne, and occurs even here in the North. Lady Mormont reigns over Bear Island, and her daughter will follow after her death."

"Lady Sansa of Winterfell," he murmurs. "Warden of the North."

"I haven't the least idea what I'd be doing; you know that, don't you?" The face she gives him is tight with fear and a healthy dollop of vexation. He knows that look well, though he has never seen it in this context.

"You do have some experience with this sort of thing."

"Do you mean in the Eyrie, while Petyr's hostage?" she rejoins. "Yes, but only with the running of the household itself, and that task cannot compare to this."

Sandor shrugs. "Might be bigger, but the needs are the same. Food, shelter, protection. Someone smart enough to make the right decisions. You've been doing that since we've been here."

"Only because I have had wise council."

"As does every leader. No man - or woman, for that matter - worth their bloody salt has done it alone. You know that."

"But I have no knowledge of the defense of lands and strongholds, or of the tactics of war and the ways of battle. I cannot lead soldiers."

"You have the Greatjon for that. And me, for what it's worth. Put together, we'd make a decent strategist."

"What if Rickon objects?"

He snorts in response. "The boy is barely eight years old. He cares about nothing but frogs and sword-play. Can't even hold the same bloody thought in his head for more than a minute or two. That age, they give you trouble, you swat them on the arse and send them on their way."

"My father's bannermen would never stand for seeing a woman on Winterfell's throne."

"Have you been struck blind, girl? Who do you think these men are who've been working night and day, the ones lining up to spend a few precious moments filling those pretty ears of yours with pledge and promise - the same ones who seek your advice and council? These are the men you're certain won't support you?"

"What you foretold may come to pass," she warns. "I will likely have suitors sniffing at my claim like hungry dogs to a bone."

He can't help but chuckle. "Let them sniff; they'll smell nothing on you but me." He tries to take her in his arms but she steps away, glaring at him.

"You want me to do this," she accuses.

"Sansa …" He takes in the angry, frightened look on her face and wonders when she will realize how strong and capable she truly is. It is not simply because she is a Stark, or high-born, though the blood running through her veins accounts for some of it. But the rest is uniquely hers, a facet of her character he has always seen, but that she has not even begun to plumb. "Little bird," he tells her gently, "this is what you were born to do."

Her eyes move over his face, probing, questioning. When she finally speaks, her query catches him off-guard, for it is nothing he expects.

"For what were you born, then?"

A long time ago his answer would have been automatic and thoughtless. But he is not that man anymore, and he finds himself searching for the proper words and haltingly saying them as they come.

"To serve, if I'm able. Fight, when I must." He runs the back of one finger along her cold cheek. "Love, as best I can."

"If I do this," she says, "if I accept Jon's proposal, it means forever. I cannot simply change my mind and leave Rickon here with only guardians to raise him. He is my blood and deserves to grow up amongst his family, what little is left of it. If I do this, it will be my life. _Our_ life, Sandor."

"Tell me, little bird. What do you want … most of all? If you could have anything, what would it be?"

"The only thing I have wanted since I watched my father die. My home, my family." Her eyes glisten but she blinks hard and forces the tears away. "People who love me not for my name, but simply because I am worthy of being loved."

He does not say a word, only lifts his hands from his side and holds them open, glancing around at the place where they stand, here in the heart of Winterfell. Looking back at her, he knows she understands the gesture; his unspoken request that she look round and see she already has her heart's desire. It is not the small stone cottage he had written of in his letters, tucked in close to the woods and private - his dream that she had taken on for herself. But she is old enough now to know that dreams are malleable things and are shaped by circumstance as much as desire.

Sansa reaches up and cups his cheek. "Tell me true, Sandor, what do _you_ want?"

He circles her wrist in his fingers and turns his face to kiss the palm of her hand. "Do you know, little bird," he tells her, "that only two other people have ever asked that of me? My sister and the old man. And now you."

"Then you have been thrice blessed."

"More than that," he admits quietly. "Every day, Sansa, every day."

He opens his arms and this time she steps into them and lets herself be enfolded. "I'll tell you what I want," he murmurs against her hair. "I want to be a better man than I was before. For you, for Rickon. For the old gods and the new. For this place, your home. For Winterfell and all it stands for. I know the gift I've been given; I will not squander it."

She grasps him tightly for a time and then releases him, and he reluctantly lets her go. He can feel her resolve, and sees it reflected on her face. She gazes up at him with magnificent cerulean eyes that deeply pierce him to his soul, seeing him for who he is, and his heart swells in his chest. He wonders if he will ever grow used to her looking at him with such trust and affection. He hopes not.

"There is only one thing I would ask of you before I do this," she says. "And I would have it done before Jon leaves us."

As she tells him what it is he cannot help but laugh, and he quickly agrees. Only then does he pick her up off her feet and spin her round, until they are both dizzy with it. And then they go to find Jon.

****

**…**

They speak their vows before the heart tree with her brothers, Howland Reed, and Maege Mormont as witness. A light snow falls silently around them as they join hands and turn to each other. There is no septon, no set words they must say, and no pact other than the truth of their commitment, each to the other. They stand before the old gods, who have no use for ceremony, and speak their hearts.

It is over in a few short minutes and they stay behind as the others make their way back to the Great Hall. They face the weirwood, its eyes weeping blood-red, frozen tears. She shivers beside him and he takes her arm, pulling her in front of him and wrapping them both warmly in the thick fur of his cloak.

"Wife," he says, testing how the word feels in his mouth.

"Husband," she responds.

She tips her head back to peer up at him and they trade a grin.

"When shall we share the news with the rest?" she asks.

"Makes no matter to me. Whenever you're ready."

"Better to do it soon and have it done. Tonight then, at the evening meal. I do not want to spend another night without you in my bed."

"Whatever my lady wants, that she shall have," he responds, getting back another smile.

"Do you suppose they will expect a proper bedding to be had?"

"Not if they know what's bloody good for them. I'll kill the man who dares try to make you naked. I'll be the only one doing that."

She giggles and then goes quiet and he watches, mesmerized, as snowflakes settle in her hair and turn to tiny, sparkling jewels as they melt. He cannot remember a time he has felt this content, this whole. He is not foolish enough to forget there are many and more hardships still to be faced. Nor can he ignore the coming war Jon has spoken of and that it may well signal an end to them all. But he knows they will survive what they can and wear their scars gladly, with pride instead of shame, with gratitude and not anger.

"I'm remembering something my father told me," she relates after a time. "He said he would find a match worthy of me; someone who was strong and gentle and brave."

Sandor snorts. "Not even the great Lord Eddard Stark could be right all the time."

Her laughter rings out like a bell, bright and sweet as a summer's day. He lifts his head and watches as a single red finch, startled by the noise, takes flight from where it has been perched in the weirwood high above their heads, and disappears into the steel gray sky. And for just an instant he is back on the muddy bank of the Trident, delirious with fever and dying, wanting only to hold to her for just a moment more.

"Aye," he rasps. "There you go. Fly, little bird." Sansa turns in his arms, a look of confusion on her face. But Sandor says nothing, for it is nothing that can be explained. He releases her and offers his hand. As she takes it, their fingers threading together, he turns them toward the path leading out of the godswood.

"Come along, then, wife, there's work to be done."

****

**…**

**A/N: This is where I get to bather on, so I beg your indulgence while I express a few thoughts and many thanks. Did I answer all the questions I raised with this story or tie up all the loose ends? Not even close. But then it was never my intention to do that, and that wasn't why this story was begun. I don't know what will happen to these two now, no more than any of you do. But I've left them in a place of strength, and love makes all of us more courageous. I think they'll be just fine. Maybe someday I'll check back in with them and the muse might feel compelled to tell us a bit more of their story. In the meantime, let your imaginations run wild; that would serve as the greatest compliment I could receive.  
**

**Long bear hugs and sloppy kisses to all my readers on LJ, tumblr, ff dot net and AO3. Your continuing comments, support, and feedback have not only gained me greater skill at this whole writing thing, but also new and treasured friendships, and a larger appreciation for the remarkable series that brought us all together. Thanks also to my fellow Sandor Clegane aficionados for helping to feed my need for all things Hound-ish. I would be remiss if I didn't give a tip of the hat to the leader of the Brotherhood of Pain (an obscure nickname from a different era), Mr. George R.R. Martin. Without him … well, you know.**

**The muse in particular would like to thank the musical talents of Jake Smith, Mumford & Sons, Ray LaMontagne, Noah Gundersen, Stevie Nicks, Van Morrison, David Gray, and The Fray's _Be Still_ for the ear candy that inspired and drove this piece of fiction. If forced to pick a single song as theme to this piece, I'd have to go with Mumford  & Sons _After the Storm_. Thanks also to all the artists in all the various mediums who've fed the eyes too. Your contributions are what make this world a more beautiful place.**

**Until next time …**


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